


Blood is Thicker than Water

by ValyrianAluminum



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Additional Characters to be added, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, House Roxton, Jon Snow Doesn't Join the Night's Watch, Like the house is real but never mentioned in the main series, OC House - kinda, Only in the Dance of the Dragons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, R Plus L Equals J, Sexual Content, follows book canon until it doesn’t
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-01-27 18:22:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 59,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21396625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValyrianAluminum/pseuds/ValyrianAluminum
Summary: “Who shall I squire for, father?” Jon asked. “You mentioned an old friend.”Manderly maybe? I don’t know if father has any friends not of the north. They’re the only ones who follow the Seven.“You shall squire for Ser Lorence Roxton.” Lord Stark answered.Oh. I have zero clue who that is.“His father Lord Moryn Roxton is the old friend I mentioned. I fought alongside him at Pyke. He was also the one who told me where to find your Aunt Lyanna.” He added quietly as an afterthought.“I don’t recognize the name, father.” Jon said. “They’re not of the North?”“No.” His father confirmed. “House Roxton is a noble house of the Reach, sworn to Highgarden and House Tyrell. If memory serves, Ser Lorence squired for Ser Arys Oakheart, now of the Kingsguard.”Wow. Robb will be so jealous.orInstead of taking the black, Jon travels south to become a knight.A knight, and so much more.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Original Character(s), Jon Snow/Margaery Tyrell, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen (past), Taena Merryweather/Original Male Character(s) (minor), Ysilla Royce/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 205
Kudos: 423





	1. Prologue, Act I

**Author's Note:**

> House Roxton’s official seat is the Ring, but I cannot find this anywhere on any map, and House Blackbar, the true ruler of Bandallon, is offhandedly mentioned once, with no actual characters, except the husband of one of mace Tyrell’s cousins’ daughter, whom we never see. So in this fic, House Blackbar does not exist, and never has. Massive loss, I know, but I think the story will survive.
> 
> If only the Ring was on the map, then the head of House Roxton could be "Lord of the Ring".
> 
> i'll see myself out
> 
> *precious*

PROLOGUE, ACT I

Lord Moryn Roxton, Lord of Bandallon, sat in his solar, reading over some of the week’s ravens. The usual inquiries were, frustratingly, ever present. Land disputes amongst what little bannermen he had to begin with, wayward soldiers content to ignore the King’s law, and the weekly correspondence between Lord Leyton Hightower and his youngest son Ser Humfrey. Moryn was fond of his former squire, now ward, and was sure to not break the seal, reminding himself to deliver this to Humfrey’s rooms at a later time.

There was one letter which stood out from the rest, however. The one who’s seal was emblazoned unmistakably with the snarling direwolf of the Starks of Winterfell. The last time he had seen this sigil was six years ago, on the surcoats and shields of the brave northmen that led the siege of Pyke. _For a few moments, I wondered if it would be the last thing I ever saw. _The direwolf of Stark brought back many memories, not all positive.

_. . ._

_281 A.C._

Moryn could not believe his luck. Or lack-thereof. _The Sword of the bloody Morning, damn him to all the seven hells._ It was a sunny day in the tourney grounds, the looming shadow of Harrenhal doing little to darken the mood of the crowd. Lords, ladies, knights, and maidens from across the Seven Kingdoms gathered to watch Ser Arthur Dayne in his first tilt. _And I, his first victim. Splendid. _Moryn had at least hoped to win one or two tilts, maybe against one of those rodent-faced Freys, or maybe one of the ever arrogant Knights of the Vale. _A shame the Fat Flower isn’t jousting. I’d have challenged him immediately. Sending Mace to the dirt would make any loss worth it._

But fate was not on his side. Ser Arthur had challenged Moryn personally. “I prefer to test my mettle against those with true talent, not waste time fighting some arrogant lordling with more pomp than skill,” he’d said. One does not simply decline the challenge of a knight of the Kingsguard, especially one given with such respect. _Damn him, he makes it so difficult to dislike him._

In the end, he broke one lance on Ser Arthur’s shield, before being sent to the dirt the second time around. As losses go, it was not a particularly painful one. He hadn’t fallen awkwardly, thankfully not twisting a limb a way it was not wont to go. He would hurt on the morrow, no doubt, but at five-and-twenty, and an anointed knight, he’s been hurt worse. Clarice would want to take care of him, and that could be nice, he supposed. Getting up, he was careful not to look at the box holding his fellow lords of the Reach. _I may not be liable for my actions if I see that smug look of satisfaction on dearest Lord Tyrell. _The consequence of his efforts drew his eyes to the royal box, where he caught the eye of Prince Rhaegar. The prince had been watching him curiously, but once eye contact was made, lifted his chalice in mock salute with a smirk on his face. _Cheeky fucker._ Moryn gave a mock bow in turn, drawing a laugh from the prince, and from Ser Arthur, returning from his victory lap. “What say I ransom the horse, and you serve the wine tonight?” he suggested, a smirk on the white cloaked knight's face.

“As you say, ser.”

The competitor’s clasped forearms, and Moryn rode off to his tent, to remove his armour. His squire, Florent’s lad, Imry, set to aiding him. Normally the lad was quite talkative, but seeing his master get thrashed so easily must have stolen the words from his mouth. Once finished, Imry went to find a silent sister, who would ensure he had no serious injuries, other than wounded pride. After an uncomfortable encounter with one of the old crones, whose disapproval of seemingly everything about Moryn was quite apparent, he went to join the rest of the Reach lords in their box, only to be stopped just outside his tent by a knight of the Kingsguard, whose helm was adorned with the black bat of the tourney hosts.

“Is aught amiss, ser?”

“Other than your jousting skills?” Ser Oswell Whent said. “You could smell a bit better, I suppose. You’re to finish watching the joust with royalty, after all.” 

“Royalty?”

“Prince Rhaegar to be specific. Ser Arthur Dayne as well, though he is only considered royalty by himself.”

_That’ll really stick it to the Fat Flower._

“Are you telling me to bathe then, ser?” Moryn said with a small smirk. He liked this knight.

“Telling you? No. You’re only to be seated next to the future King of Westeros. A perfume of sweat and horse shit is perfectly appropriate. Suggested, even, my lord.” Ser Oswell Whent drawled, clearly getting impatient. _Still patient enough for smart arse sarcasm, it seems._

“Allow me to bathe quickly, and I shall join you in a quarter-hour.” Moryn suggested. “Alright?”

Ser Oswell left him with a nod, and Moryn sent Imry to get a basin and some water. “Cool, not cold, but definitely not hot, alright?” he said, before sending the boy off. After bathing, and dressing in his best sky blue surcoat stitched with the interlocking saltire of rings that denotes House Roxton, he exited his tent. 

“Ready, my lord?” Ser Oswell asked.

“As ever, ser.” Moryn said. Suddenly a wicked thought crossed his mind. “Actually, might we extend this invitation to my wife as well? I wouldn’t want her to miss such an opportunity.”

“I can have a messenger—”

“I should like to collect her myself, ser.” Moryn interrupted with a pointed look and a smirk towards the Reach’s seats. “If that is alright.” 

Ser Oswell let out an exasperated sigh. “As you say, my lord.” He murmured. He gestured with his hand. “Lead the way.”

The two men made the trek towards the reach box, while a match between a Frey and a Manderly took place. “A rodent and a whale," Ser Oswell grumbled. “truly a captivating tilt.” The two chuckled as they climbed the steps and entered the stands. _Is this petty, dishonourable, and beneath me? Yes. Would father be disappointed? No doubt. Do I care? Not at all. _Once Lord Mace caught sight of Moryn he raised his chalice, gaining the attention of all the lords of the Reach. 

“Well ridden, Lord Moryn.” He exclaimed jovially, voice laced with sarcasm. “You may be the first reachman to ever lose to a dornishman in a joust!” All seven chins jiggled as he laughed, joined in by the entire Tyrell family, bar Lady Olenna, who rolled her eyes at her son’s antics, and most of the other lords of the Reach. After taking a chalice of wine from a serving girl, Moryn put on a fake smile, raising his glass to Lord Tyrell. “Ser Arthur is a fearsome opponent, my lord.” He said, “And I can now drink as much as I wish for the remainder of the joust!” That elicited a few chuckles from some other lords. 

With eyes still on him, he scanned the box for blonde hair and brown eyes, and made his way to his lady wife, Clarice Roxton née Osgrey. A woman of one and twenty, pretty in a plain sort of way, a daughter of House Osgrey, a house of landed knights. He made a show of kissing her hand, complimenting her, and, while side-eying Lord Mace, he went in for the kill. 

“My lady, his grace the crown prince has graciously extended me an offer to watch the rest of today’s tilts by his side.” He intoned, enjoying the way Mace’s perpetually pink cheeks slowly started to deepen in colour. “I would be honoured if you would join me.”

“My lord, it is I who is honoured.” Clarice said, with a knowingly sly smile on her face. Turning to Ser Oswell, she offered her hand and said, loud enough for Mace to hear “Lead the way, good ser!” The three exited the box, Clarice barely holding in her laughter, and once a safe distance away, she erupted.

“That was one of the most petty things I have ever seen!” Clarice said, laughing.

“I couldn’t help myself, I’m afraid” Moryn responded, with a small chuckle.

“Yes, yes. You’ve one-upped the Fat Flower, congratulations.” Ser Oswell drawled. “You’re late enough as it is, can we please make our way over now, or have you another person you wish to lord this over?” That sobered up Moryn and Clarice real quick, and they made the rest of the trek in silence. 

Once at the entrance to the royal box, Ser Oswell passed them along to another white cloak, who introduced himself as Ser Jonothor Darry, before taking up Ser Jonothor’s spot guarding the entrance to the royal box. The sound of Ser Jonothor’s armour alerted most to their presence, including the King and Queen. Aerys glared at Moryn, eyes alight with paranoia, and pointed a gnarled finger, whose nail was as long as Moryn’s forearm. “Who are you to presume to enter my box?” He grumbled, almost lazily. “The dragon has no equal! Back to the small folk with you!”

Moryn and Clarice shared a confused look, until a man Moryn’s age, tall, lean, handsome, with bright silver-gold hair, stood.

“Don’t fret, father.” Prince Rhaegar said. “Lord Roxton is here by my invitation.”  “So you can conspire to steal my throne in mine own box?” Aerys countered lazily “You’ll never get it, you ungrateful boy! I should’ve smothered you in your crib, you upstart…” he trailed off, muttering under his breath, still uninterested in the conversation at hand. Rhaegar looked just as unfazed, as if conversations like this were a daily occurrence. Rhaegar’s wife, Princess Elia, invited Clarice to sit with her, while Rhaegar had Moryn sit next to him and an off-duty Ser Arthur.

“I apologize… I didn’t mean to… forgive me…” Moryn stuttered, not sure what he had done to be tied to Aerys’ absurd accusations. 

“It’s quite alright, my lord.” Rhaegar said. “You’ve done nothing wrong. He’s like that sometimes. You needn’t worry.” 

“Thank you, my Prince.” Moryn said, relieved, but still very confused.

“I’m the one who should be thanking you, losing to Ser Arthur so easily.” Rhaegar joked. “I’ll not have to face you in the yard. I wasn’t looking forward to our tilt.”

“Ser Arthur made quick work of me, my prince.” Moryn agreed. “Alas, I now have the great honour of being a royal cupbearer for the night, so everyone wins, it seems.”

“Royal cupbearer?” Rhaegar asked, confused. “You’re only to pour Arthur’s wine, I’d thought”

“Ser Oswell has led me to believe that Ser Arthur considers himself royalty.” Moryn replied, an overly serious tone contrasting with the mirth in his eyes. “Is he not, in fact, royalty?”

Rhaegar and Arthur chuckled, and Rhaegar made to reply, only to be cut off by Arthur. “Whenever I spar against _royalty_” Arthur drawled, emphasizing the word, and elbowing Rhaegar in the ribs. “They end up on their arse. So what else could that make me?” At that, the three men erupted in laughter.

_. . ._

Moryn was roped into serving Arthur’s wine the next two nights, if only for the phenomenal company that Ser Arthur and Prince Rhaegar made. While none were quick with a smile, Rhaegar had quite the clever wit to his jests, and seemed to grow more comfortable making them about Moryn as the nights went on. Moryn learned a lot about the silver prince, and about the Sword of the Morning. He learned that Rhaegar’s and Elia’s marriage was not one of love, but of duty. That, while good friends, they did not desire one another. It was almost as if Rhaegar had described the relationship between Moryn and his own wife, Clarice. 

Clarice and he had tried, at first. The birth of their son and heir, Lorence, was a blessing that brought them closer together than ever before. But try as they might, feelings did not develop. It had been 6 years since Lorence, and they had not had another child yet. Moryn knew Clarice wasn’t desperate for another child, and he was not either. They would eventually have to start trying again, as having only one child is not responsible in furthering the house. _An heir and a spare, the saying goes._

Moryn asked Rhaegar a question that he is fond of asking other highborn. A question he uses to determine the true character of a person. “If you were not crown prince, if you could completely ignore any duty or responsibility, and do whatever you heart desires, what would you do?” 

Rhaegar thought a long moment, maybe ten seconds, before responding. 

“I own a tower, located along Prince’s Pass, that I purchased about 4 years back. I was riding from Starfall with Arthur, and I fell in love with it. The isolation, the wilderness, it seemed like a place I could go should I ever wish to be completely alone. The sunrise from the top of the tower is immaculate, the sky is awash with colours I did not even know existed. When I am king, and Aegon’s reign is secure, I shall retire. I shall give up my crown, and power to my son, and live out the rest of my days in my Tower of Joy. I should like that, I think. So if I could be free of my duties and responsibilities, I would expedite that plan.”

Moryn came away from these conversations with a great fondness for the Silver Prince. He believed him a kind, intelligent, honourable man. He would make an incredible King, and though it is treason to think such, he couldn’t wait to see the day. 

On the third night of the jousts, Rhaegar did not show. Arthur claimed he was serious about winning the joust, foregoing the wine and company for sleep, in order to be well rested. Moryn found similar kinship with Arthur, as he had with Rhaegar. He could see why he and Rhaegar were fast friends. They were very similar. Quiet, honourable, good men. Arthur had more of a biting tongue, from his Dornish blood, perhaps. Arthur had shared a story of how he and Princess Elia had fancied themselves in love as children, but Elia’s mother Dorea Martell, the princess of Dorne, had refused the match, as Arthur was only a second son. “She was ten-and-four, I was ten-and-three. We were young fools.” Arthur said. “We laugh about it now. How ever gentle, sweet, and kind Princess Elia lit her mother’s favourite gowns on fire when she found out!” 

Arthur was on duty the fourth evening, and so Moryn retired to his rooms early. He had made friends with two of the most well respected men in the realm, without even meaning to. _Clarice will think me a fool not to try to use them to advance my station,_ he mused. _No matter._ He fell asleep that night, feeling happier then he had in a long time. He was set to leave the morning after next, and he had enjoyed himself far more than he had expected to. Instead of spending the tournament getting ribbed on incessantly by Lord Mace, he had made friends with royalty._Depending on who you ask_.

On the fifth day, Rhaegar Targaryen, the Silver Prince, and Moryn’s good friend, won the joust. Moryn and Arthur, who had been unseated by Rhaegar earlier that same day, cheered loudly as he unseated Ser Barristan Selmy in the final. 

And yet, their smiles died, same as everyone else, when Rhaegar rode past his wife, to crown the Lady Lyanna Stark his Queen of Love and Beauty.

_. . ._

“What in all the seven hells was he thinking?” 

Clarice gave him a thoughtful look. “I don’t know.” She said quietly. “Not even Elia knows, I think. Lady Lyanna was furious. I overheard her being questioned by her oldest brother, the one the prince beat in the joust.

“He spoke as if she had seduced the prince. She didn’t like that. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone, let alone the heir to a great house, receive a tongue lashing to the degree Lady Lyanna gave her brother. It was extraordinary, really.”

“Lyanna didn’t know what was about to happen?”

“No.” His wife said. “She spoke of being friendly with the prince during their few conversations, but the crowning surprised her as much as it embarrassed and enraged her.”

“This could start a war, Clarice.” Moryn said solemnly. “Robert Baratheon, Lady Lyanna’s betrothed, is said to have a temper, and should something more occur between her and the prince…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t see this ending well, Clarice. Not at all.”

_. . ._

They began their return to Bandallon the next morning, seen off by King Aerys and Queen Rhaella. Rhaegar was not to be seen, nor was Elia. As they said their goodbyes, Ser Arthur gave him a solemn nod from his place in front of the Queen. Moryn returned the nod, and their small retinue set out in the direction of the Kingsroad. Moryn had made the decision to leave before thefestivities had concluded entirely. This day would be devoted to the archery and axe-throwing competitions, while the next would be allotted to a horse race and a competition of singers. There was also to be a mummer’s show after the competition had been concluded, as well as a massive farewell feast.

Moryn had correctly assumed that Lord Mace, and consequently his simpering sycophants thathe called “lords of the Reach," would wish to stay for the farewell feast. So by leaving early, not only could they reach Bandallon quicker, they would be blissfully without the company of Mace Tyrell, and his family. Lord Randyll Tarly had similar ideas, apparently, and so the two Reach lords joined their retinues for the journey home.

Lord Randyll was not someone Moryn would call a friend. Or even someone he liked. The man was hard, cruel, and unforgiving. While Moryn held no love for Tarly, he greatly respected the man. An elite battle commander, and an extremely talented combatant that Moryn would never wish to cross blades with. _Say what you will about the surly man, but I’m glad he’s on my side, should war occur._

_. . ._

The Tarly retinue had long since broken off from the Roxton one, and made their way back to Hornhill. Moryn had spoken to Lord Randyll four nights after they had made their way through Kings Landing, after he had some time to brood over the events of the tourney. 

“Should the prince presume to continue to court Lady Lyanna, and stoke Lord Robert’s ire even further, this could mean war, my lord.” Moryn spoke firmly.

“It could.” Randyll agreed. “Lord Robert is naught but a green boy whining over stolen goods on his own, but he could potentially bring with him the might of not only the Stormlands, but the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale as well. It might be wise to inform your bannermen of the possibility, Lord Moryn. Hastily trained armies bred from desperate calls to arms do not win wars. Well trained and well taught men perform best. I know I will be informing my bannermen.”

“A wise cause of action, my lord.” Moryn agreed. “I think I shall do the same.”

_. . ._

Moryn smelt the sea first.

Before the grey walls and tall towers of Bandallon, _home_, could be seen upon the horizon, the refreshing saltiness in the air calmed his mind, as it always did coming home. _I wonder how big my little boy is._ Lorence was near seven now, and the light of Moryn’s life. “He’s the very image of his lord father," they would say, and Moryn always took pride in agreeing with them. Lorence has Moryn’s brown hair, preferring to keep it short like his father, and Moryn’s deep blue eyes, always alight with mischief. _How one so guarded and quiet as myself created such a charismatic little devil I will never understand._ That was a lie of course. Lorence had his mother’s penchant for mischief, finding humour in near every situation. _If I came home short an arm, Lorence would ask me how I had forgotten it._

What worried Moryn about his boy, was his growing similarity to his father. Even in the last two years alone, Lorence’s mischievous side has dimmed, slightly enough that most don’t notice. _A father always knows._ Moryn wondered if Lorence was beginning to feel the burden of being the heir, something Clarice and he had tried to shield him from for some time. He still had his lessons, of course, but they always tried to encourage him to enjoy his childhood. _It is not a crime to act a boy, when one is a boy. Manhood is harsh, unforgiving, and cruel. Let him enjoy his childhood first._

Now that Moryn’s squire, Imry Florent, was ready to earn his spurs, Moryn had a mind to write Lord Leyton Hightower, and ask to take his youngest son Humfrey on as a page, and later a squire. He had met the boy in Oldtown, on trips regarding trade and alliances, and was fond of him. _Easy smiles, outgoing natures. He and Lorence are cut from the same cloth. Let Lorence find companionship with another highborn. It’s not as if he’ll be getting siblings any time soon._

As he entered through the opening gates of Bandallon, he could see him. His son. _My boy._ He was practically vibrating with excitement, clearly being held back by Maester Toman. _I suppose I’ll quit teasing him._ He dismounted his horse, handed the reigns to a stablehand, knelt down, and opened his arms. With a cry of “Father!”, Lorence broke free from the maester’s hold, and ran full barrel into him, embracing him tight. Moryn hugged his son just as tightly back. _I will never tire of this, not even when he is a man grown._ He heard a murmur, muffled by his shoulder.

“Come again, my boy?”

“I missed you.”

Moryn placed a kiss upon the crown of his son’s head, ruffled his hair, and responded. “I missed you more. Let’s go greet your mother, shall we?”

_. . ._

The raven came after six moons. 

_To Lord Moryn Roxton, Lord of Bandallon._

_ As your liege lord, I command you to raise your levies, and march with all haste toward Highgarden, and join your strength with mine own. _

_ Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark have declared war on the crown, and like the leal servants to House Targaryen that we are, House Tyrell shall come to the aid of the rightful rulers of Westeros._

_Long live the King,_

_Mace Tyrell_

_Lord of Highgarden_

_Lord Paramount of the Reach_

_Warden of the South_

Moryn has never been more grateful than he was, for heeding Lord Randyll’s advice. Since he had returned from Harrenhal, he had been bringing smallfolk from the neighbouring villages into the castle for lessons from the Bandallon master-at-arms, Ser Unwin Osgrey, uncle to Moryn’s wife. Ser Unwin led lessons for two hours at a time, teaching the basics of combat with sword, axe, and lance. Anyone talented enough to achieve the moniker of ‘Ser’ could slay any one of the smallfolk being trained, but this small amount of training would lead to a far more superior force than any that could be raised and marched ‘with all haste’. _Blundering oaf. I doubt he will even bloody his sword once the entire war._

And so, only four moons after being reunited, Moryn had to say goodbye to his son again. Two nights before leaving, he dismissed the servants to put Lorence to bed himself. After dinner, he led his son to the heir’s chambers. _Been a while since I’ve been in here._ He made sure Lorence had changed into his nightclothes, shut his window, and took a brush and a lemon to his teeth to clean out the remnants of honeyed chicken and roasted vegetables from the night’s dinner. He tucked him in, and broke the news.

“Lorence.”

“Yes, father?”

“I’m afraid I have to leave again.”

“Where are you going now? Are you going to join the war? Are you bringing Orphan-Maker? Will you kill a hundred men? Could you bring me back a present?” 

Moryn smiled at his son. “I am going to join the war.” He replied calmly. “Lord Tyrell, my liege lord, has called his banners. As sworn bannermen of House Tyrell, it is our duty as Roxtons to obey our liege lord.”

“But you don’t like Lord Tyrell.”

“Whatever gave you that impression, my boy?” Moryn asked. _A blind man could see it, methinks._

“You said to Ser Unwin that he’s so fat that the whales in the Whispering Sound would think him their kin.”

Moryn couldn’t help let out a laugh at that one. _Well, it’s true._

“You’re correct. I do not like him.” Moryn admitted. “But that does not matter. I will answer this call to action anyway. And why is that?”

“Because we are sworn bannermen of House Tyrell.” Lorence parroted proudly.

Moryn put on a proud smile. _Not something I find hard to do with him._ “Very good. You’ll make a fine Lord of Bandallon one day, son.”

“Not better than you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Moryn said, with a small smile. “You must keep up with your lessons with Maester Toman and Ser Unwin, and you’ll be the best lord Bandallon has ever had the honour to house. Alright?”

Lorence nodded. Moryn pulled his son into a hug. “Listen to your mother, Lorence. She knows best.” Moryn said. He pulled back to look his son in the eye. “We are Roxtons, and family links us as much as the rings on our surcoats. No bond is stronger, for blood is thicker than water. Remember that, my boy. Remember that, and all will be well.”

“I will, father” Lorence murmured sleepily, as they separated. “I promise.”

Lorence fell back onto his featherbed, eyes already closing. Moryn pushed some of his son’s hair out of his face. Lorence repeated it one more time before he fell asleep.

“I promise.”

_. . ._

The Roxton retinue passed under the gleaming white walls of Highgarden. He was one of the last to arrive, which was unintentional. _Whether or not Mace sees that way is another thing._ The fact that they had met up with the Florents on the way was not going to help his case. The retinue was greeted by Lord Tyrell’s son and heir Willas. The ever prickly Florents immediately took offence, even after being told that Lord Mace was in the process of calling the lords to a meeting. Willas played his part well, saying all the necessary things, offering bread and salt, and even not showing any offence at all to Axell Florents obnoxious half-slights. _That be his grandmother’s influence. _The men set up camp between the Tarlys and the Fossoways, and Moryn was whisked away to the meeting. _The less Mace is involved in _any _battle plan, the better._

Upon arriving in the council chamber, Moryn noted he was one of the last to arrive, barring Lord Alester Florent and Lord Mathis Rowan. _I would’ve thought Mathis would be among the first to arrive._ They were joined by the two tardy lords around the table and map, Lord Mathis offering a short but incredibly sincere apology, while Lord Alester offered a quick “my apologies.” _Typical._

“My lords.” Mace began. “The rebels have won a battle at Summerhall against the Stormlords loyal to the crown. Lord Fell was slain in combat by Lord Baratheon, and lords Grandison, Caffren, and Lord Fell’s own son have all joined the rebels.” _Dark wings, dark words indeed. _“Our scouts tell us that Lord Baratheon means to take his forces north to link up with Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark. I believe that, should we move posthaste, we can surprise them here—” he moved the figurine representing their forces upstream from Highgarden “— at Ashford. Should we catch them unawares, we may be able to destroy the spearhead of the rebellion, before it has even truly begun. What say you, my lords?” 

It was a good plan. The rebels would be riding on the high of victory, and wouldn’t expect an attack from the west so quickly. If they could be caught unawares, a victory at Ashford could severely damage the rebel effort. _There is absolutely no way this was Mace’s idea. This has Randyll Tarly written all over it._

“It is a good plan, Lord Mace.” Moryn said, sounding as confident as he felt. “Should we catch the rebels unawares, this could be a knife in the heart of the rebel cause.” Mace seemed surprised that Moryn was on board so quickly, and narrowed his eyes at him. Moryn held his gaze, beseeching him with his eyes to understand the truth of his words. It seemed to work, especially with Lords Rowan, Oakheart, Fossoway, and Cuy offering their agreement to the plan immediately after. Lord Tarly stayed oddly quiet, only saying, “A fine plan, my lord. It will work.” when prompted by Lord Tyrell.

Once the plan was agreed upon, the matter of where everyone was riding came into discussion. Lord Mace immediately granted Lord Tarly the command of the vanguard, and himself command of the rear. _To the surprise of absolutely no one._ Lords Hightower and Rowan received command of the left and right flank respectively, with Lord Florent leading the middle. 

“Who would you like riding along side you in the van, Lord Tarly?” Mace asked.

Lord Tarly immediately looked to Moryn. “I’d have Lord Roxton as second in command, and Lords Oakheart, Mullendore, and Redwyne with me as commanders, my lord.” 

Mace stared at Lord Tarly for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite believe Moryn would receive such an honour. He acquiesced in the end. “Very well, my lord. Do as you see fit.”

The remaining lords were assigned their roles, and everyone cleared out of the room to seek sustenance at the feast. Lord Tarly stayed behind a moment, studying the map intently. Moryn took this as an opportunity to speak with him.

“Lord Randyll”

“Lord Moryn”

“Might I ask why you assigned me a position of such esteem, when there are houses of greater acclaim you could have afforded the honour?”

Lord Tarly looked up from the map and studied Moryn a moment, before responding.

“Belonging to a house with a great history or fame means nothing in battle. In battle, men are men, highborn or low, great house or landed knight, trueborn or bastard. I care not if some lord feels he deserves the honour I have bestowed upon you, and neither should you. I know your merit, I know your honour, and I know of your skill in battle. There is no other man, except perhaps Lord Hightower, that I would have by my side in the vanguard. And if you had your levies trained as we discussed on the road from Harrenhal, that is all the more reason. I trust you to do your duty, and do it well, and that is the only reason I need.”

“As you say, my lord.” Moryn responded, not quite sure how to respond to such praise. “I bid you my thanks then.” Lord Tarly merely nodded in response, and Moryn took his leave. _Tomorrow we ride for Ashford._

_. . ._

The battle went nearly according to plan. Nearly. 

Rebel scouts were caught and killed, and they managed to take the rebel host unawares. Under the command of Lord Tarly, the van cut through the front lines of Baratheon's army. At one point, Moryn had been knocked from his horse, and found himself in one-on-one combat with a man who’s surcoat displayed the two white fawns of House Caffren. He recognized the armour of Ser Bryce Caffren from Harrenhal. The lad was a talented swordsman, there was little doubt of that. He had come fourth place in the melee, after all. Moryn made use of his strength, and of the edge of House Roxton’s Valyrian steel longsword Orphan-Maker, attempting to slice the Caffren boy’s armour to shreds. 

Getting confident, Moryn began to add more strength to his strikes, attempting to end it quickly. Caffren was slowing down, the few cuts delivered through his armour taking their toll. However, during one of Moryn’s less controlled strikes, Caffren blocked, and with Moryn off balance, delivered a cut to his right hand, severing his fingers. Orphan-Maker fell to the grass from whatever remained of his right hand, but before he could draw a dirk with his left, Caffren slashed down at Moryn’s right elbow, relieving him of his arm from the elbow down.

Moryn let out a scream, and dropped to his knees, but with his blood up, and adrenaline pumping through his veins, he felt far less pain than one should, considering the circumstance. Caffren made the mistake of thinking Moryn beaten, as he stepped back and smiled at Moryn. 

“Ah, but it is not your arm I want, my lord.” Ser Bryce said, regarding Orphan-Maker’s smoky black blade on the grass next to Moryn. “It’s your sword.”

Those words brought him back to a conversation he had with Arthur, one of those nights in Harrenhal, forever ago. A story Arthur had told him about the Kingswood Brotherhood, and the Smiling Knight.

“Then you shall have it, ser” Moryn replied, picking up Orphan-Maker with his left hand. He had not spent much time working on swordplay with his left, but he had clearly spent more than Ser Bryce believed, judging by the expression on the young man’s face.

He leapt into battle, hacking and slashing, more controlled than he had been, but not nearly as controlled as he had been with his good arm. Ser Bryce knew it too, once he got over the initial shock of Moryn not being useless with his bad arm. He started slowly beating Moryn back, strikes growing quicker and stronger. _I’m going to lose_, he thought frighteningly. 

Backing up farther and farther, he let his thoughts wander.

What did he have to lose?

_Bandallon, the way the smell of the sea drifts through the windows on a summer morning_

He stopped moving backward

_Ser Unwin, those easy smiles, those kind brown eyes_

He attempted a quick riposte, putting Ser Bryce Caffren on his heels

_Clarice, with her penchant for laughter, jokes, and kindness_

He dealt Ser Bryce a wound to his shoulder after a feint and three quick strikes.

_Lorence_

_His smile, his laughter, his hugs, his kindness_

What did he have to lose? 

_Everything_

With a quick feint to the neck, he stepped to his left, and delivered a hard slash to Ser Bryce Caffren’s right calf, Orphan-Maker ripping through the steel, cloth, skin and muscle like paper. The knight fell to his knees. Moryn ended it quickly, separating Caffren’s head from his shoulders, his strike hard and true. 

_I won._

_I won. Lorence, I won._

_Lorence…_

His vision darkened, and he fell to the grass, to the sound of horns blowing.

_. . ._

Moryn awoke in a tent that was not his own. He made to rise from the bed, using his right arm as he had his whole life, only to stumble when nothing was there to bear his weight. He managed to right himself before he fell onto his… his…

_Oh no…_

The memory of the battle came back to him all at once. As did the pain. It still did not hurt as much as he felt it should have, but due to the grogginess in his head, he assumed he was hopped up on milk of the poppy. 

_Enough to put three horses to sleep, it feels like_

He was not near as big as three horses, and so he let it take him back to sleep.

_. . ._

When he awoke the second time, he was not alone. A silent sister was wrapping a bandage around his stump of a right arm, but this time, he felt the pain. 

And he screamed.

Through the fog of the intense pain coming not only from fingers he no longer had, but also from the stump of an arm which he did still have, he noticed that the silent sister had the gall to look affronted at his screaming in her ear. That thought quickly left his mind, as it was replaced once more, by pain. The silent sister mixed some milk of the poppy with some water, which he drank eagerly. Within moments, he felt himself falling back to sleep.

_. . ._

The third time he awoke, he still felt the pain, but it was lessened by a large degree. He could not feel the effects of the milk of the poppy, so he assumed that his body had healed to the point where he could be coherent. 

And so, Moryn got up, drank greedily from a pitcher of water, and exited the tent. It appeared they were still in Ashford, camped outside her walls. He re-entered the tent, dressed in the clothes by hid bed, gathered his belongings, _nobody had made off with Orphan-Maker, thank the Gods, _and began looking for Lord Tyrell’s tent. Since he looked for the largest and most garish tent, he did not look long. He made his way over to a green tent with gold trimmings, twice the size of any other.

The two guards outside noted the sword at his side, the sigil on his jerkin, and his bandaged up stump of a right arm. After staring at him in reverence for a short moment, one poked his head inside and announced Moryn’s presence. After receiving a response, the guard moved the tent flap aside, and Moryn stepped in.

He was greeted by a flowery scent, incenses by the unlit brazier the culprit, no doubt. The war council table was set up to his left, occupied only by the commanders of the army. Lord Randyll nodded at him, Lord Hightower shook his good hand, a look of respect in his eyes, and Lord Rowan said, “If half of what I heard is true, my lord, your story will go down in legend.” Moryn humbly accepted the praise, citing potential exaggerations and half-truths that could make a story sound more impressive than the truth. “Nonetheless, Lord Roxton, we’re glad you’re still here.” Lord Rowan said resolutely. 

“That we are.” Lord Mace piped up. “You and I do not see eye to eye, Moryn, but you are one of my finest battle commanders, and it would not do for you to die on the field. It is good to see you walking again, my lord.” All Moryn could do in the shock of being paid a compliment by _Mace bloody Tyrell_, was offer a nod and a murmured thanks. 

“How long has it been since the day of the battle, my lords?” Moryn inquired.

“Four days, Lord Roxton.” Lord Tarly answered. “It is good fortune you have awoken on this day, as we are gathering the lords tonight at dinner for a council, to plan our next move. While we took Baratheon’s host unawares, he managed to retreat with nearly his entire force. It was a good punch to the mouth, however our work is far from finished.”

“Your input shall be most welcome tonight, my lord” Lord Hightower added. 

“Then I shall be there” Moryn responded. “If I might beg your leave, I should probably have a healer inspect my arm. It would not do to neglect what little of it I have left.”

“Of course, my lord.” Mace said, letting out an insincere chuckle.

_. . ._

“Seeing as he took his entire army north, and has left Storm’s End completely unprotected, I see no other course than to lay siege to his home.” Lord Mace said, as he addressed the lords of the Reach. “Lord Redwyne, you will return to the Arbor, and bring your fleet to Shipwrecker Bay, where you will not let so much as a seagull through, understood?” Lord Redwyne nodded. “The remainder of the army shall ride for Storm’s End, where we shall besiege the castle. Baratheon’s green boy of a brother holds it, and he will yield soon enough once he sees the might at which we threaten his home with.”

_The entire army? We have more than seventy-thousand men, and you want to use all of them to besiege one castle!? Are you simple?_

_I have to say something_

“The _entire_ army, my lord?” Moryn questioned passionately. “If you wish to scare a green boy into yielding, forty-thousand at the very most would be more than enough, especially with the Redwyne fleet in the bay. The remaining troops would be a boon to the other loyalists in the Riverlands, or-or the Crownlands, even.”

“I do not wish for my home to be caught unawares, Lord Roxton.” Mace intoned. “I will be sending fifteen thousand men to protect Highgarden. Lord Redwyne will need five thousand men to man his ships, so a force of fifty-thousand will besiege Storm’s End. We must have this castle. If I have to overcompensate a little, it is a risk we must needs take. That is my decision, and my decision is final.” 

“Do you actually mean to help the Targaryens keep the throne, or are trying to play both sides, Mace!?” Moryn fired back, his voice raised.

“We have declared for House Targaryen, and so we shall fight for House Targaryen!” Mace fired back. “I hardly think besieging the home of the rebel leader is ‘trying to play both sides’, _Moryn._”

“You command the largest army in the Seven Kingdoms, and you are using near its _entirety_, to lay siege to _one_ castle! I name it folly, nothing less, nothing more!”

“Moryn, watch your tong—”

“Have you forgotten who gave you the home you are so desperate to protect!? Have you forgotten the reason why House Tyrell are no longer no more than lowly stewards!? Have you no loyalty!? Have you no honour!?”

“ENOUGH!”

Both Moryn and Mace were on their feet, breathing heavily, staring daggers at each other, while the other lords watched in shock. 

“You do not have to like my command, _Moryn_, but I am your liege lord.” Mace spoke forcefully, his seven chins jiggling with every syllable, his skin tone approaching burgundy. “Should you not obey my command, your life is forfeit. So shall you comply, or shall I send for the headsman?”

Moryn regarded Mace cooly for a moment, before sitting down.

“I will do as you command, my lord.” Moryn said in a tone so cold, he himself nearly didn’t recognize it.

Mace just grunted, before dismissing the Lords of the Reach from his tent.

_. . ._

Ten moons in to the _Folly at Storm’s End_, as some lords had taken to calling it behind the Fat Flower’s back, they received the news. They were dining on a feast of roasted duck, boar, and mutton, with all manner of side dishes and appetizers. All within sight of those inside the castle walls. _Taunting starving men, can you sink any lower, Tyrell? _

A rider with the sigil of House Baratheon came with the message. Lord Tyrell thanked him, and sent him on his way, before reading the message to the table. 

_To Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden_

_ Prince Rhaegar is dead. I saw to it myself, when I crushed his ribcage with my war hammer. His blood and rubies now litter the Trident. The man who kidnapped and raped my betrothed is in the ground, his cause along with him. By the time this is delivered to you, Lord Eddard Stark will be a few days ride from King’s Landing, where he will take city, and gain his own revenge, for the unlawful murder of his kin._

_ I now offer you the same mercy I offer any enemy I defeat. Bend the knee, forswear any allegiance to House Targaryen, and you will be allowed to keep your title of Warden of the South, as well as your other lands and titles. _

_Robert Baratheon, _

_King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, the First Men_

_Lord of the Seven Kingdoms_

_Protector of the Realm_

“We must ride to King’s Landing with all haste!” Lord Rowan declared. “We must protect the last of the Targaryens!”

“I don’t know about you, Mathis,” Lord Hightower grumbled. “But I am not rushing to the defence of the Mad King. I fought for Prince Rhaegar, and now my King is dead.”

“But his wife and children remain in the Red Keep, Leyton!” Moryn exclaimed. “Even if we cannot hold the throne, Baratheon will butcher them like animals! We must do all we can to protect them.”

“I agree!” Said Lord Rowan.

“I, as well!” Added Lord Ambrose.

“Our duty is to our king.” Lord Tarly stated. “Our king, and his heir reside in the Red Keep. I agree with Lord Roxton and Lord Rowan, we should ride to King’s Landing as soon as possible.”

“My lords” Mace Tyrell began. _Here we go._ “This message states that Lord Stark will be at King’s Landing’s gates in a few days. It would take us nigh on a week and a half to reach the city. In all likelihood, even should we leave now, we will be too late to be of any use to His Grace and the Prince’s wife and children. I propose—”

“And whose fault is that, _my lord_?” Moryn cut in. Mace just glared at him, before clearing his throat, and continuing.

“I propose that we continue to lay siege to Storm’s End. We have nearly starved them out. They shall be surrendering any day now, I have no doubt. Once we have Stannis Baratheon and his little brother in our custody, we can use them to make assurances for the remaining Targaryens.”

His proposal was met with unhappy, but not unsurprising silence, which Mace took as agreement. 

“Splendid. Let us get back to the feast, shall we?”

In the midst of all their arguing, the news had yet to sink in. _The Prince is dead. Rhaegar is dead._ His heart ached for his friend, even if he had only known him less than a week. _A great man lies dead in a river, because the Fat Flower wouldn’t abandon the Folly of Storm’s End._ His mind wandered to another part of the letter. _Kidnapped and raped? Never in a hundred thousand years. The Long Night would come again before Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped and raped a woman. _Yet that had been the story which propelled the rebellion forward. _Was Robert Baratheon so petty, to have spread this fabrication, because he’d been rejected by the woman he loves?_ Moryn had never spoken one word to Robert Baratheon, and so he could not say. 

But he was sure on one thing. It was clear Rhaegar had loved Lady Lyanna. The more he had thought about that day, that joust, the moment when all the smiles died, the more sure he was that Rhaegar had loved Lyanna. While everyone in the crowd was silent, or whispering, or laughing, in Baratheon’s case, Rhaegar had eyes only for her. It was a look he had never seen on Rhaegar, not even towards his wife. It was a looked Moryn assumed, until then, was saved for his own children alone. 

It was a look of absolute, undying, devoted adoration. A dragon could’ve finished Balerion’s work on the castle walls, and Rhaegar would not have noticed. His eyes were only for his she-wolf. _Kidnap and rape? _Moryn scoffed to himself. _Rhaegar would rather die than see Lyanna kidnapped and raped, by his hand or another. _

_She left with him willingly, or I still have two hands._

_. . ._

A moon later, Stannis Baratheon had still not yielded the castle. And judging by the banners spotted making their way to Storm’s End, he would not have to. As soon as Lord Eddard Stark appeared on the field, bearing the banner of a crowned stag, Lord Tyrell dipped his banners. 

“His Grace King Robert offers you mercy, should you ride to King’s Landing and bend the knee.” Young Lord Eddard said, few missing the venom in his voice when he said the king’s name. “We shall rest here for the night, and on the morrow, I leave to go find my sister. I suggest you leave as well, in the other direction, my lords.” There was some grumbling, some murmurs of agreement, but Lord Stark’s proposition was met mostly with silence. He turned his horse around, and bid his men set up their tents. 

Later that night, Moryn requested an audience with Lord Stark from one of the guards at the front of the Stark camp.

“Who’s askin’?” The guard asked, his northern gruff and blunt manner of speaking refreshing to Moryn’s ears.

“Lord Moryn Roxton, Lord of Bandallon. I befriended Prince Rhaegar at Harrenhal, and I may know the whereabouts of your lord’s sister.” Moryn said, speaking through the guards initial attempt to interrupt him once he mentioned the Silver Prince.

“If you waste milords time with this, southerner, gods only know what he’ll do to you.” The guard warned.

“It is no waste, I promise you.”

The guard checked him for weapons, then bid him follow, and led him through the northern camp, to the lord’s tent. The guard poked his head in, and Moryn heard him say. “I got a one of the southron lords here, milord. Says he was friends with Rhaegar. Says he might know where your lady sister is being held.” An inaudible response came from within, and the guard moved the tent flap aside. 

Stark was seated on his bed, in only his tunic and his breeches, deep circles underneath both of his eyes. Those eyes held none of the fatigue betrayed by the rest of his face, as they were alight with anger. “This had better be worth it, Lord…” 

“Roxton, Lord Stark.”

“Lord Roxton. If you waste my time, there won’t be a place in all hells I won’t find you.” Stark spoke with a cold fury, making him seem older than his nine-and-ten years. “Speak the truth, my lord, and nothing but.”

And so he did. 

He told Stark of a tower in the Prince’s Pass, spoke of the Prince’s love of its isolation, and peace. Spoke of Rhaegar’s desire to retire there, to relinquish his crown to his son once he deems him ready. “It’s not only off the beaten path, and extremely isolated, but he adores the place, my lord. Said if he could ignore all of his duties and responsibilities, he’d retire to the Tower in an instant.”

“He kidnaps and rapes my sister, and hides her in a Tower, where only he would know where to find her.” Lord Stark questioned, his eyes still holding that cold fury. _His temper is like a blizzard. Cold, and unforgiving._ “This is what you’re telling me?”

“My lord.” Moryn began, knowing Lord Stark would like this part of the conversation even less. “Have you ever met the prince?” At the shake of Stark’s head, Moryn continued. “I would’ve considered Prince Rhaegar a good friend of mine. And I do not associate myself with men who rape and kidnap girls. Trust me, my lord—” he held a hand up at Stark’s attempt to interrupt. “Trust me, when I say, Rhaegar would never kidnap your sister, and would _never_ rape her. The man I knew would never dream of doing such things.” Stark tried to interrupt again, but Moryn held firm. “Not all men hold to a northerner’s rigid honour, though perhaps more should. Do not trust what you think you know of Rhaegar.”

“And yet he absconds with Lyanna, who was betrothed to Robert, with no explanation as to why.” He countered incredulously. “You don’t mean to suggest she went willingly, do you? Lyanna may not have been happy with the betrothal, but she would never betray her house and her family. She would never act so…” he trailed off, saying the last part to himself, his fury melting away.

“Careless?” Moryn offered softly. “Impulsive? I do not know your sister, my lord, did she ever act this way?”

Lord Stark was quiet for a long moment, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, before quietly choking out an answer.

“Yes.”

“I know not of her feelings toward Rhaegar, my lord.” Moryn continued. “But I do know that Rhaegar was madly in love with her. The Long Night would come again before he would see Lyanna Stark kidnapped and raped, especially by his own hand. Ask any who knew him, my lord. They will tell you the same. Love knows no borders, listens to no agreements. We would do anything for the ones we love, yes?”

The younger man met his eyes, the icy cold fury long since melted away. They showed only sadness now, the deep painful sadness, of a young man who has lost everything far too early. He nodded, finally allowing the tears to spill out. 

“I thank you for your information.” Stark choked out. “You may take your leave now, my lord. Good night.”

“Of course, Lord Stark.” Moryn said quickly, wanting to leave the man to his ghosts. He turned to leave, but turned back before reaching the tent flap.

“If I am wrong, my lord, and everything I believe about Rhaegar is false, then I fought on the wrong side of this war, and I beg your forgiveness.”

Stark held his eye contact for a moment, before nodding and turning away from him. Moryn turned, and exited into the cool, night air.

_. . ._

After bending the knee to the Usurper, _for he was naught else,_ Moryn rode home as quickly as he could. No inns, no rest stops. Riding throughout the day, sleeping until first light, then riding again. When the familiar smell of the sea hit his nostrils, Moryn nearly cried. _I’m not leaving my family ever again. Damn Mace and his damn oaths. He can burn in all seven hells. The gods might even make a good roast of him._

When he made it through the gates, he did cry. His son jumped into his arms, telling him how much he missed him, and that broke the dam. After a hug from his son and his wife, they both seemingly noticed that he was not quite back in one piece. His wife wore a concerned look, however the mirth in Lorence’s eyes was unmistakable.

“Did you forget the rest of your arm somewhere, father?”

_. . ._

A raven arrived not two weeks later, from the crown, inviting the Lords and Ladies of Westeros to a royal wedding. _The joining in matrimony of His Grace King Robert Baratheon, and Lady Cersei Lannister._ An accompanying letter stated what was left unsaid in the wedding invitation. That Lyanna Stark had died of fever, in a bed of blood, in an isolated Tower in the Prince’s Pass. Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent, and Ser Arthur Dayne all perished protecting their prince’s captive. Of the party of seven northern lords, only Lord Eddard Stark and Lord Howland Reed survived, and are bringing Lady Lyanna’s bones home to Winterfell.

Moryn’s heart ached, for the dead and the living. For the sarcastic Ser Oswell Whent. For a good friend, and true knight in Ser Arthur Dayne. For an innocent young girl, who had no idea the trouble she caused until it was far too late. But most of all for Lord Eddard Stark. A man who, not one year ago, had a well respected father, a dashing older brother, and a wild yet beautiful younger sister, all of whom are with the gods now. He has a wife who was meant for another, a title which was meant for another, but most of all he has grief, grief that would cripple lesser men. 

Grief of that magnitude isn’t meant for anyone, and yet he must bear all of it, all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO thats not even the entire prologue. Next up, good ol' Moryn and Ned link up again in the Greyjoy Rebellion.  
I didn't tack that on to the end of this, because this was already nearing 10,000 words, and most of the chapters won't be this long. The continuation of this Prologue certainly will not be as long, as there will be less set up needed, and there is far less lore surrounding the Greyjoy rebellion. 
> 
> After the Prologue, we finally get to Jon!
> 
> House Roxton, circa 295 A.C.
> 
> Seat: Bandallon
> 
> House words: “Fear is a fool’s notion.”
> 
> Sigil: Interlocking golden rings upon a sky blue field
> 
> Region: the Reach
> 
> Allegiance: House Tyrell
> 
> Lord: Lord Moryn Roxton
> 
> Lady: Lady Clarice Roxton née Osgrey
> 
> Heir: Ser Lorence Roxton
> 
> Spare: Luthor Roxton
> 
> Wards: Ser Humfrey Hightower; Rickard Tyrell


	2. Prologue, Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moryn takes on the Greyjoy Rebellion!  
The end of the Prologue
> 
> Remember what I said last chapter, about this one not being nearly as long?  
Turns out that was a lie

PROLOGUE, ACT II

_289 A.C._

The day the raven came was as normal and uneventful as usual.

Moryn awoke alone in his bed, dressed himself in the fineries of his house, and exited his chambers. Humfrey, Lord Leyton Hightower’s youngest son, and Moryn’s squire, was there to greet him. 

“Good morning to you, my lord.” Humfrey greeted.

“Good morning, lad.” Moryn answered with a small smile, beginning the journey down to the dining hall. “Sleep well?”

“Yes, my lord.” Humfrey answered cordially, though quite clearly untruthfully, if the tiny slits of his blue eyes, his slightly mussed golden hair, and his stifled yawns were anything to go by. Moryn fixed him with a knowing look, to which Humfrey admitted grumpily, as only boys of two-and-ten do. “Maester Toman has me memorizing all the houses of the Reach.” Moryn winced slightly, remembering that part of his education.

“Quite unpleasant, that.” Moryn admitted. “But it is something you need to know. A knight with no knowledge of the lands in which he resides, nor the house to which he serves, is worth little more than a sell sword, or a hedge knight. I will not send you back to your father as a hedge knight.”

“Yes, my lord.” The boy grumbled, eliciting a small chuckle from Moryn.

“Come on, now.” Moryn said. “Let’s see how you’ve been doing. Seat of House Rowan?”

“Goldengrove.”

“Words of House Oakheart?”

Humfrey thought for a moment, before answering. “it’s ‘Our roots go deep.’ I think.”

“Good one. Sigil of House Fossoway?”

Humfrey was about to answer, before narrowing his eyes at him. “Cider Hall or New Barrell?”

“You caught me. Cider Hall.”

“A red apple. New Barrell is a green one.”

“Good lad.” Moryn said, proud. “Here’s a difficult one. Sigil of House Pommingham?”

Humfrey thought a moment, before offering weakly. “That name sounds made up.”

“All names are made up.” Moryn countered. “But House Pommingham are direct vassals of House Tyrell. Like House Bulwar are to your father. They’re only about a 3 hour’s ride from Highgarden, I believe. And their sigil is a red pomegranate on a white background.” A look of recognition crossed Humfrey’s face, before being replaced by frustration at not remembering.

“I knew that.” He grumbled quietly, eliciting another small chuckle from Moryn.

“I’m sure.”

. . .

They reached the dining, hall, already occupied by Clarice and Moryn’s second son, Luthor. Luthor Roxton was born nine months after Moryn returned from Storm’s End, at the end of the War of the Usurper. _I must have really missed Clarice_. The pregnancy was a moment of great hope for Moryn and Clarice, as they both did not expect they would have another child after Lorence. Both had been elated once informed by Maester Toman. Images of a young boy chasing around after his older brother, sparring with sticks, maybe even squiring for Lorence one day, had all danced through Moryn’s head the entire pregnancy. 

Sadly, Luthor would never do any of those things. They had known something was abnormal the moment the Maester pulled him screaming from his mother's womb. Once Luthor was placed in Moryn’s arms, he was first struck by his bright blonde hair, and deep brown eyes, all his mother’s. But as he looked further, he noticed other things. Slanted eyes, flat nose and head, short neck, tongue hanging out of his mouth. He had looked to his wife, who wore a concerned look, then to Maester Toman, who offered one of sympathy.

“I apologize, my lord, my lady.” Toman had said. “It appears the boy is simple.”

Moryn’s good mood had dimmed, but his disappointment was quickly replaced with guilt. _No matter his condition, he is my son._

“It’s not the boy’s fault.” He defended. “Nor is it any of ours. He is born a Roxton, he will live a Roxton, and, after a long life, he will die a Roxton.” He looked to his wife and maester, daring any of them to say any different. He passed the unnamed child to his wife, who’s look of concern morphed into a very quick look of disgust, before her look softened and she smiled at him. Her eyes, however, remained sad.

“Luthor, we shall name him, my lord.” Clarice said. “A strong name, for a member of a strong house.” Moryn smiled at that, and vowed then that his son, his Luthor, would live a long, happy life. _People will gossip, as they always do, but should any insult him to his face, I will deal with them personally._

Later, his wife and he brought Lorence in for a visit in the nursery. _Clarice loves him_, Moryn thought, relieved. _We would have to have a long talk if she did not._ Clarice was playing with the boy’s feet, both of them laughing. Lorence had a look of awe on his face, eyes never leaving his baby brother. _He will be a brilliant big brother. I can see the protectiveness in his eyes already._

Later, after dinner, Clarice knocked on Moryn’s solar door. After a soft call of “enter”, she entered, albeit hesitantly, looking as if she wished to have a difficult conversation with him.

“Husband.”

“Wife” Moryn answered with a small smirk. “You look as if you wish to speak of something.”

“I do.” She answered, before a pause, as though she wasn’t quite sure how to begin.

“I’m sorry.” She settled on. Before he could question her, she rushed on. “I know you wanted another normal child, and I could not do that for you. I’m sorry.”

“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for, Clarice.” He countered softly. “A child in any form is a blessing from the Seven. He could have been born a dwarf, born albino, lame, or blind, it does not matter. He is my son, and yours. I will love him fiercely.”

Clarice breathed a small sigh. Of relief or something else, Moryn did not know. “That is good.” she said. “It’s just— most men would have placed a pillow over his face and not lost sleep over it. Just a simple ‘we’ll try again when you’re able’, and that’s it.”

“I am not most men.”

“I know.” Clarice said with a small smile. “And I thank the gods for it. Besides, should anyone mean Luthor harm, they will have to fight tooth and nail through his older brother.” she finished with a small smirk.

They both chuckled at that, before raising a glass of Arbor Gold, Clarice’s first in moons. 

“To your son.”

“To _our_ son.”

. . .

Now, near his sixth nameday, Luthor still had his slanted eyes, his flat features, and his tongue was too big to stay in his mouth very long. But he was smiling as Moryn and Humfrey reached the great hall. _Always smiling. I rarely see him without a smile on his face._ Humfrey greeted his wife with a few courteous words, and his son with a ruffle of the hair. Humfrey had gotten a strict talking to about Luthor when he arrived at Bandallon. Not from Moryn however. He had gone to find the boys for the feast, with the rest of the Hightower family who had made the journey, when he had overheard Lorence giving quite the speech.

“He is my brother, as much a trueborn Roxton as I am, and you will treat him with nothing but respect and kindness. My father will not want to properly punish you, as he might offend your father, but I have no such reservations. Say one bad word against Luthor, and I will take your tongue myself. Understood?”

He had to intervene there. Threats of bodily harm to new guests were not the behaviour of an heir to a noble house. _Even if I do not disagree with a single word spoken_. He came upon the scene in one of the more secluded training yards. Lorence was already a tall boy for his age, and Humfrey was a bit on the shorter side. Lorence was staring down at Humfrey with such protective anger, it surprised Moryn as much as it made him proud.

“Now there Lorence,” he said “There is a feast to attend.”

He turned to Humfrey. “Go find your family, boy. Squire duties start next week. Might want to enjoy these last few days of freedom.”

Once Humfrey escaped, for lack of a better term, Moryn held up Lorence. His son immediately started to protest, but stopped when Moryn held up his hand.

“I appreciate what you said, son. I do.” He began. “But you cannot threaten bodily harm against guests, let alone my future squire. Your heart is in the right place, but you must control yourself. Losing your temper like this gives a bad impression to those on the outside looking in.”

“I was just making sure he didn’t say anything to him.” Lorence murmured glumly. “You may not hear what some say about him, but I do. They call him Luthor ‘Rotten’.”

“I know.” Moryn said. “But if you fight and threaten and insult everyone who says something negative about your brother, you will be taking on the might of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. I am so proud of your protectiveness towards your brother, but so long as he doesn’t hear the insults, he will be happy. And his happiness is more important than words heard around the castle by guards and servants, correct?”

“Yes, father.” 

“Good.” He said, with a soft smile and a ruffle to his son’s hair. “Besides, Humfrey is a good lad. I’ve met him the few times I stayed at the Hightower. Did he even make a comment before you started threatening his appendages?” He let out a chuckle at his son’s hesitant shake of his head, before continuing. “Make sure you apologize to him. For your choice of words, not your words themselves. And try to befriend the lad too. He’ll be here while you are off to Old Oak, it might be good to have a friend for when you get back. Now go find your mother, you need to get ready for the feast.”

Lorence and Humfrey were inseparable the next few days, any initial enmity forgotten. Then Humfrey became Moryn’s squire, and Lorence was off to Old Oak to squire for Lady Arwyn Oakheart’s youngest, a Ser Arys. 

. . .

After breaking their fast, and training in swordsmanship, Moryn released Humfrey to Ser Unwin, for training with a lance. _Unwin can handle all the activities requiring two full arms._ Moryn retired to his solar, stopping Maester Toman on the way for the day’s ravens. And that was where he saw the letters. The one sealed with the crowned stag, and the one sealed with the golden rose. Both detailing the same situation, and both entailing a call to arms. 

Apparently Balon Greyjoy had placed a driftwood crown upon his head, declaring himself King of the Iron Islands, and his forces have burned the entirety of the Lannister fleet at Lannisport, and were seen sailing towards Seagard. 

_Here we go again._

. . .

“I thought you said you would ignore another call to arms from Mace Tyrell.”

This conversation had been going on for near half an hour, and was seemingly not going anywhere. Moryn had mentioned the ravens he had received over dinner. Humfrey seemed excited to be going to war, hungry for glory and all that, and Luthor kept on smiling, clearly ignorant as to the significance of the topic at hand. While his wife’s words politely inquired details of the situation, her tone screamed _we’re speaking of this later._ And later had come all to quickly.

“I would ignore _just_ Mace Tyrell.” He countered, growing annoyed. “I ignored him two years ago, when he called for help fighting bandits along the roseroad, and after the War of the Usurper when he requested assistance in putting down some rogue ironborn around the Shield Islands. This, however, was parroted by _the damned Usurper _himself_._ I’d bet my lordship that his clever, old, Hand had these all sent to all the other loyalist houses, and to none of the rebel ones. Should we ignore, the warmonger of a king would have an excuse to storm our walls and perhaps even end our line. I will _not_ let that happen, Clarice. I will not.”

“I’m just worried.” She said, features softening. “You do not have your sword arm anymore. I know you’ve been re-training with your left, but you are more vulnerable now since you’ve been, what, five-and-ten?”

“I was damn good when I was five-and-ten.” He grumbled, drawing a soft smile from Clarice.

“I’m sure. You weren’t as fat as you are now, however.” She responded, that sarcasm he enjoyed leaking back into her tone with a small smirk. “I understand, truly. I just worry. You will be more at risk than you ever have in battle, and Lorence will be squire for the Oakheart knight. Normally honour demands you spare the squire of a man you kill, but what do the ironborn know of honour?”

“Women always suffer the most in wars.” She continued thoughtfully. “They lose their husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers.”

“I’d argue that the husbands, fathers, sons and brothers suffer more.” Moryn shot back playfully. “Seeing as they die painfully, and all.”

“They suffer quickly and then it’s over.” Clarice countered with a small smile. “Most will go to one of the Seven Heavens, and know eternal paradise, while we live on, sad.”

“Remind me never to argue with an Osgrey.” Moryn said with a laugh, defeated. “You’d think I’d have learned that lesson arguing with both you and your uncle over the years.”

Turning serious once more, he embraced her. “I have to go, Clarice. There is no other option.”

“I know.” She said sadly. “I know.”

. . .

Moryn sent out the word the next day. He, Humfrey, and his raised levies left Bandallon for Oldtown a fortnight later, meeting up with the Florents along the way, the only reason being that custom decreed it, _because I hate the fucking Florents_. Thankfully, the Tyrell host was a day or so behind them, moving slowly due to their size. _Traveling with Tyrells AND Florents would be the death of me, I’m sure of it. _

Once they arrived in Oldtown, and made their way to the Hightower in the middle of the Honeywine, Moryn released Humfrey of his duties for the night. “Go spend some time with your family, lad.” He said. “You may not see them for a while after this.” Humfrey went off to catch up with those of Lord Leyton Hightower’s sizeable brood that remained in the Hightower. Moryn thought he heard the names Lynesse, Gunthor, and Baelor being rattled off by his excited squire. _The fact that Baelor Brightsmile calls my two-and-ten year old squire ‘little brother’ seems preposterous. Baelor is near twenty years older than him. _Moryn was shown to his rooms, which were on floor five-and-sixty. _Thank the gods for the winch cage, I don’t think I would survive that climb. _The view of the Sunset Sea was immaculate, and more than made up for the ten minute ride in the winch cage. 

The welcome feast was to be delayed for two days, until the Tyrell host arrived, which was just fine with Moryn. He had a feast of his own, in his rooms. He supped on freshly caught oysters, clams, and crab, and sipped on a fine Arbor gold. And he got to watch the sun set over the Sunset sea. _Aptly named, I suppose. _As he laid his head down to sleep, for a moment, he could almost forget that he was marching to another war he had no business being in, and that not only was he crippled, but his son would be there as well. He slept well for the first time since Bandallon. _Exhaustion works wonders for anxiety. Perhaps I will write to the maesters of my discovery._

. . .

Lord Leyton was well aware of the enmity between the houses Roxton and Tyrell, it seemed. Moryn could not be sat farther away than Lord Mace and his heir, young Ser Willas. He had spoken with Willas briefly, when the Tyrells had arrived. Moryn had been expecting a slim Mace, and while there were similarities, it seemed that all of the intelligence afforded to Lady Olenna had skipped a generation, and landed on Willas. The boy was sharp, and had even admitted to Moryn that his father had attempted to breed dislike of Moryn in Willas, only for that bud to be nipped by his grandmother. _Lady Olenna has done a good job with this one. If I noticed his intelligence when he was a boy of ten, this six-and-ten man has intelligence spewing out of his ears._

The feast was almost enjoyable. He had even entertained a dance with young Lynesse Hightower, after much prodding by Humfrey. She seemed a lovely girl, if not a bit vain. _Maybe more than a bit, judging by the jewels bedecking her dress. Gods, it’s a wonder she can hold it all up with that dainty figure. Her dress looks like it weighs more than my armour. _She spoke to Moryn of all manner of things, including asking for the story of his arm. _They all do. _He complimented the craftsmanship of her dress, to which she replied, “This one is simple. I plan to have a far more elaborate dress once I wed.” He responded outwardly with a nod and a smile, but inwardly, he felt sorry for the girl, and even more sorry for the poor fool who weds her. _Should she marry into a house poorer than her own, she will be miserable. _The feast concluded, with not one conversation with Mace Tyrell, and Moryn couldn’t be happier.

. . .

They departed Oldtown for Seagard two days after, once Lord Redwyne arrived with his enormous fleet. _Paxter will have a large role to play, the ironborn are monsters at sea._ The Tyrells and Hightowers were to ride with Lord Paxter atop the _Arbor Queen_, Paxter’s flagship, while Moryn received the honour of traveling with his second favourite family. _Fuck the motherfucking Florents, for fuck’s sake. _Instead of giving himself the gift of Axell Florent’s company, he decided to stay above deck. It was cold, and a bit wet, but it was peaceful. The captain, Artham Flowers, was a riot. The portly man had to be nearing his sixties, hair greying and crow’s feet showing. But he always had a smile on his face, and he looked like he could carry an entire barrel of Arbor gold in each arm, without breaking a sweat. The battle-axe he leaned against the railing by the wheel was no joke, either. It was a fine two weeks, about as well as two weeks traveling the sunset sea could be. _It feels like the calm before the storm. We were optimistic before Ashford, and we did minimal damage, and I lost my arm. We were slightly less optimistic, but optimistic nonetheless, about laying siege to Storm’s End, but that ended poorly as well. _No matter how he busied himself atop the ship, be it sparring, japing with Flowers, or simply looking out towards the endless ocean, Moryn could not kick the feeling that everything was about to go wrong. 

. . .

They arrived to good news. Balon Greyjoy’s eldest son, Rodrik, had led an attack immediately following the burning of the Lannister fleet, as to cause as much damage as possible before help arrived from the Seven Kingdoms. Seagard had held strong, however. They dealt the ironborn their first defeat, with Rodrik Greyjoy being slain by Lord Jason Mallister. 

“They fight like savages, even the nobles.” Mallister had said that night, everyone in their cups to some degree. “Not a drop of honour in the lot of them. When his grace arrives, I pray we sail to those shit stained rocks, and teach them a lesson!” That was met with a cheer, and a toast.

. . .

The lords of the Westerlands, along with the Reach lords who had not sailed with the rest arrived the next day. Including the knights of house Oakheart. Moryn heard a knock on his chamber door, and was tackled as soon as he answered it. After fending off his attacker to a degree, he returned his son’s embrace. 

“Lorence!” He exclaimed, after the embrace ended. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, my boy.”

“Thought it would be your ears that were sore, father.” His son said cheekily. “Heard you traveled with the Florents.”

That elicited a chuckle from Moryn. “I actually managed to stay away from my fox-eared neighbours for the entirety of the journey. The ship captain was fantastic company.”

“You didn’t want to listen to Axell prattle on about his family’s claim to Highgarden? His voice hits notes I didn’t even think possible when on _that_ subject.”

Moryn let out a full belly laugh at that. _Gods, have I missed him._

“You’re not wrong there, my son.” He said. “Keep such opinions to yourself though, yes?”

After a reluctant nod on Lorence’s part, Moryn gave a fond smile. “I wish to hear all about your squireship so far. Sit, and tell.”

“Ser Arys is amazing, father.” Lorence started. “He is easily the best sword in Old Oak, defeating his older brothers easily, even the heir. We traveled to King’s Landing for the tourney for the Queen’s nameday, and he came second in the melee, and made it to the semi-finals in the joust! He was unseated by Ser Barristan Selmy, but he’s a kingsguard, there’s nobody better. He is kind, courteous, gallant, and a true knight, father.”

Moryn let out another chuckle at his son’s rambling. At three-and-ten, he was near a man grown, and looking at him, he seemed nearly there. He was up to Moryn’s chin, destined to grow taller. His shoulders had grown wider, and his arms thicker. _Hopefully he will have the sense to not linger about the girls. _But his fawning over his knight reminded him of son’s age. _Still a boy. He’s marching into war, and he’s still a boy. _

“Any girls catch your fancy?” Moryn asked with a smirk. It was a harmless question, but he was really judging his boy’s character. _What was Ser Arys teaching him? _Lorence blushed slightly. _Ah. _

“No, father.” Moryn gave him a pointed look. “I’ve not lain with a girl, Ser Arys says it is dishonourable to do deflower a maiden whom you are not wed to.”

“Ser Arys is correct.” Moryn allowed. He fixed his eyes to his son’s. _The ‘lord father’ stare, as Lorence calls it. _“That wasn’t what I’d asked. You’re only three-and-ten, Lorence. I’d not expected you’d have lain with a girl. Have any caught your fancy?”

“Not one girl, no.” Lorence said, eyes now glued to the floor. “I do flirt with some of the younger serving girls, occasionally. It’s just fun, nothing comes of it.”

Moryn chuckled at his son’s expression. “You are far better with women than I was at your age, son.” His son looked back at him, seemingly surprised he wasn’t getting reprimanded.

“As long as you know that once you wed, you must stop such behaviour, yes?” Moryn said, an eyebrow raised. Lorence gave a small sigh, apparently of relief, before nodding. Moryn enveloped his son into another embrace.

“Gods, I haven’t seen you in two years, and I’m already fixing you with the _‘lord father’ stare_.” Moryn said with a laugh. “Come on, let’s head to the yards. I have a meeting with the Reach lords later on this afternoon, but I’d test your mettle with a blade. See if you can’t defeat an old cripple, hmm?”

Lorence smiled brightly, before racing from the room.

. . .

He’d left Humfrey and Lorence with Ser Arys Oakheart. While he didn’t perfectly live up to Lorence’s lofty view of him, he seemed a good man, and a true knight, just as his son had said. The afternoon meeting was pointless. The entire message seemed to be ‘wait for the king before making any plans.’ _Did we really need a meeting for that? Dragging me away from my son, whom I haven’t seen in two years, to a pointless meeting? Gods. _Moryn wished sometimes that he was a lord in a different region. Dorne, or the North, even. While barbed double-speak was part and parcel of lordship, at least these regions seemed to have their shit together. _Swearing allegiance to a competent Lord Paramount. I do wonder what that must be like?_

Two days later, the King arrived, with him the remainder of the Riverlords, the Northern lords, and the Stormlords. Stannis Baratheon was to join with the Redwyne fleet, and meet the Iron fleet head on, clearing the way for a siege. With the arrival of said lords, came a face that Moryn thought on often. 

The years had been kind to Lord Eddard Stark, it seemed. Gone from his eyes was the grief and deeply rooted pain that had plagued him the last time they spoke. Now, his eyes held pure determination. During the welcome feast, Moryn found the Northern Lord Paramount half-listening to a drunken tale his best friend and king was regaling him with. He would’ve preferred to get re-acquainted with Stark without his royal best friend nearby, but they appeared attached at the hip. _The so called ‘Demon of the Trident’. Looks like a strong wind would do for him the way he’s swaying._

“Your grace, Lord Stark.”

“Lord Roxton.” Stark responded, a small, but seemingly genuine smile on his face.

“Roxton? You were one of the dragon supporters.” The Usurper spewed, angrily.

“I am sworn to Highgarden, your grace.” Moryn stated neutrally. “I followed my liege lord’s command, as honour demands.”

“Pah! Piss on honour!” The king retorted. “I tell Ned here that all the damn time! Now, away with you! I’ll not share my company with a thrice-damned dragon lover! Begone!”

“Robert,” Stark interjected. “Lord Roxton was the one who told me where to find Lyanna. You can’t fault him for following the command of his liege lord.”

The Usurper’s eyes softened almost impossibly. “That was you?”

“Yes, your grace.” Moryn responded, sad memories coming to mind uninvited. “Rhaegar had mentioned the place in passing to me, when he was in his cups.” After a small glance to Stark, he continued. “I sought to do my part to free your former betrothed from that man, after I had spent the entire rebellion camped outside Storm’s End, to my shame. I offer my condolences, your grace, whatever they are worth.”

Stark narrowed his eyes slightly at him, catching on to the half-truths being told, but said nothing. The Usurper seemed to be looking at Moryn in an entirely different light, smiling and giving him a hard pat to the shoulder, nearly sending him to the floor. 

“You’re a good man, my lord.” The king exclaimed jovially. “Disregard what I said earlier. Your condolences are appreciated. I thank you for trying to do your part to bring Lyanna back to me.”

Moryn merely offered a nod of acknowledgement. It was not a proper way to acknowledge a royal ‘thank you’, but this king did not seem to care about propriety all that much. The king then appeared, finally, to notice his missing arm. 

“Ah! Are you the man who lost your right arm to Caffren’s cousin, only to slay him with your left?” He questioned loudly, drawing the eyes of those surrounding.

“Yes, your grace.” He confirmed humbly, with a bow of his head. “Ser Caffren was a worthy opponent. Seven times out of ten, he would have defeated me, I think.” That caused the king to chuckle, before nudging Stark in the ribs.

“A tale straight out of a damn song, and he treats it as if it’s nothing! Gods! He’s like a southern version of you, Ned!” The Usurper barked with a laugh. “Humble, honourable, quiet, Seven hells! The Reach lords must dislike you!” Stark seemed embarrassed for his drunk friend-king, but Moryn merely smiled at the truth of the statement. 

“I’m well liked enough, I suppose.” Moryn said with a smirk. “Not exactly Lord Mace’s favourite vassal, I’m afraid.” The king let out a loud laugh, and even Stark joined in, the latter had seen their bickering first hand after the siege. 

“I’m afraid I shall have to take my leave.” Moryn said after the laughter died down. “Your grace, it was good to get acquainted with you. Lord Stark, it was good to see you again.” _Under happier circumstances,_ he left unspoken, meeting Stark’s eyes. By the look that clouded over his face, and the solemn nod he gave in response, he understood. With a bow, he made his way to the squire’s table, where he dragged his son up to his bed before the serving girl he was speaking to got too interested.

. . .

Six days later, Stannis Baratheon arrived at Seagard, with news of a victory in the Straits of Fair Isle. Under his command, the combined efforts of the Redwyne and royal fleets tore the Iron fleet to shreds. They had captured Aeron Greyjoy,whom Lord Tywin had graciously volunteered to take custody of back at Casterly Rock. The way was cleared to launch an invasion of the Iron Islands. Moryn was amongst a large gathering of lords, all crowded into Seagard’s great hall, while the plan for the invasion was being drawn up. While Moryn did not like Robert Baratheon, he could not deny the man’s talent for waging war. _Comparing this planning session to any of Mace’s during the Usurper’s War is like comparing night to day._

“They have no fleet, and so we will be able to cross Ironman’s Bay unmolested.” Baratheon began. “We have far superior numbers, and so we will launch an invasion on four separate islands at the same time. They will not be able to send reinforcements, and we will crush them. Send the damn pirates back to their caves with their tails between their legs!” A cheer went up from the gathering. 

“Stannis!” The Usurper’s younger brother stood from his place at the high table. _Looks a lot less thin than when I saw him last._ “Your grace.” Stannis returned stiffly.

“You will lead the remainder of the royal fleet to Great Wyk. Whoever leads the forces there, I want them to bend the knee. Goodbrother, or Farwynd, or fucking Shitstain, I don’t care! Make them understand who their king is! If not, you know what to do.”

“It will be done.” Stannis replied.

“That goes for all of you!” Baratheon addressed the collection of lords. “I’ll not have murder committed by men under my command! If they bend their rigid damned knees, they bent their knees! Am I clear?” Murmurs of “Yes, your grace.” Filled the hall.

“Lord Tywin!”

A tall, bald man stood from his spot at the high table. _Tywin fucking Lannister._ _Baratheon’s favourite turncloak._ Moryn buried the familiar rage he felt whenever he thought of Lord Tywin, and what he did to Rhaegar’s family, deep inside, as to not reveal anything to his fellow lords. _The war is over, the Usurper won,_ he reminded himself once again. _I seem to be doing that a lot here._

“Your grace.”

“You will lead the lords of the West and the Riverlands in the invasion of Orkmont. Make whoever the fuck leads there, bend the knee! Should they refuse, again, you know what to do.” Tywin nodded, and retook his seat.

Ser Barristan was given command of the force that would invade Old Wyk, and Harlaw was to be ignored, due to its natural defences. “They’ll yield soon enough once we all turn our forces against them.” Baratheon assured. 

“Now! As for Pyke, I will lead the Crownlands, along with Eddard Stark, who will lead the North!” Baratheon declared. “Lord Redwyne and his fleet will deliver us there, and the lords of the Reach under the command of Lord Tyrell will join us in the siege!” _Right in the middle of the action. Mace will love that._ His thoughts then drifted to his son. _Not bad for a first battle, I suppose. _With the strength they were attacking Pyke with, the siege would not last long, which was fortunate. _Let him live_, he prayed. _I care not if he runs from the damned battle, or if he kills a hundred men. Let him live, please._ He wasn’t even sure which god he was praying to. The Warrior? The tree gods of the North? Perhaps the Drowned God, of the Iron Islands, seeing as that was where the battle was to take place. _Whoever hears, I do not care. Let my boy live. Please._

. . .

With the battle plan fresh in mind, they set out the next day. Moryn expected similar sailing arrangements, but he was surprised to receive an offer from the Usurper to accompany him on the _Arbor Queen_. What was even more surprising, _and immensely satisfying, but he didn’t tell the Usurper that_, was that Mace Tyrell was not asked to accompany the king on the ship. The Reach’s force was to attack from the northern walls, drawing the attention away from the siege machines, which would knock down the southern walls, and the fight would begin. Regardless of the merit and genius of the plan, Mace would still be offended. _That shouldn’t please me nearly as much as it does. _Apparently, the king “barely remembered their conversation from the previous night, but he remembered enough.” _Whatever that means._

They ate in the mess hall of the massive warship, Baratheon regaling old war stories from his rebellion for some time, before passing out at the table. _How kingly._ Stark had retired early, apparently not being one who is overly fond of sea travel. After the hot, suffocating air of the mess hall, Moryn decided that he needed some air. _The smell of the sea was always calming._

Apparently, he was not the only one with such an idea. He found Eddard Stark at the bow, looking out towards the night sky, and the black seawater. 

“Lord Stark.” He said. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Stark glanced at him, before consenting. 

“Robert hasn’t choked on his own vomit, has he?” Stark said, a hint of anger to his voice. _He’s embarrassed at his friend-king’s behaviour._ _I’d be surprised if he wasn’t. _

“No.” Moryn said with a small chuckle. “When he passed out at the table, his head tilted forward, not back.” Stark made a face that could’ve been a smile, or a grimace. It was hard to tell in the light. They stood in comfortable silence for a few minutes.

“He wasn’t always like this, you know.” Stark said, as if sensing Moryn’s distaste for his friend-king. “King’s Landing. It’s changed him. He always was a man who lived for the pleasures of life. Giving a man of such tendencies unlimited power would not have had a positive impact on him. And Robert was always bad at saying ‘no’.”

“Having regrets, Stark?” Moryn said, bitterness tainting his tone.

Stark turned to look at him quickly, that familiar cold rage in his eyes. “Never.” He spat. “I regret many things, but deposing the Mad King will never be one of them.” _‘The Mad King’, he said. Not ‘House Targaryen’, and not a mention of Rhaegar. Interesting._ Moryn put his hand up in front of him, a sign of surrender. “I meant nothing by it, my lord. I do not regret the Mad King losing power either. He was a plague on the realm, that was thankfully eradicated.” Moryn said calmly. “Where you and I differ, is that we wished to see different people take his place.”

The cold glare softened a bit. He looked thoughtfully at Moryn for a moment before turning back toward the sea.

“Rhaegar fought for his father.” He said eventually. “It was an unfortunate casualty. I do not have a bad word to say against him, other than that his foolish actions started a war. A war that took near everything from me.”

“I’ll give you that.” Moryn conceded. _So I was right. Whatever happened in that tower in Dorne, Stark doesn't believe that ridiculous story parroted by the Usurper._ “He was not perfect. But he wouldn’t have approved the savage butchery of his enemies kin, which is more than you can say for Baratheon.” Stark looked down, a look akin to shame gracing his solemn face.

“We fought about that for weeks.” Stark admitted quietly. “He refused to punish either of the killers, nor the man who gave them the order, nor the Kingslayer for breaking his oath. Instead, he rewards that house, giving them the Queenship. Distasteful, dishonourable behaviour, and he turns the other cheek because it benefited him. I left King’s Landing to lift the siege of Storm’s End, and vowed never to return to that place, I was so disgusted with him. I was planning on rescuing Lyanna, and taking her home to Winterfell. I wanted to never travel past the Neck again so long as I lived. But Lyanna… she died. And for all his faults, Robert did love her. For the sake of what he and I had before the Sack, I could not put such information in a raven. I owed it to him to say it in person. The compassion and kindness he showed then renewed my faith in him. And the longer I stay with him during this war, the more he chips that faith away.”

Moryn was at a loss for words at the speech he had just witnessed. _He still carries the pain of his losses around. It never left him, he just buries it deep._ He put his hand on younger man’s shoulder, and gave him a few comforting pats, at a loss for what else to do or say. A comfortable silence passed between them for a few minutes, before Moryn found his voice.

“You’re a good man, Stark.” He said, not a trace of untruthfulness in his voice. “You have earned more of my respect than any other ‘_nobleman_’ I’ve ever met. I know what it’s like to be made the head of your house at an unexpected time. It’s not exactly the same, since I was always the heir, being my father’s only child. But my father died when I was four-and-ten. I had used naught but wooden swords and blunted tourney swords when I had Orphan-Maker shoved into my hands. It’s not easy. With how you have taken to it, I respect it immensely.” 

Stark was the one at a loss for words now. Another long silence passed. _I wonder if he’ll counter with another speech. I’ve got another one ready if need be. _He didn’t however. 

“Thank you.” He said quietly. Moryn answered him with a solemn nod.

“I’m scared, constantly, you know.” Stark went on. “Scared I’m not a good enough father, a good enough husband, scared that I’m unfair with my people, unfair with my bannermen. They all expect me to be their brave Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North, and I feel false. How can I be brave, when I’m constantly so afraid?”

Moryn thought about that for a moment. It was a good point. He remembered feeling the exact same way when he became Lord of Bandallon. And he remembered how he got around that feeling. 

He didn’t.

“When you led your bannermen into battle for the first time, were you afraid?” Moryn questioned back.

“Of course.” Stark said. _A rare man admits to being afraid so easily._

“You led them anyway, correct?”

“Yes.” Stark said, sounding slightly confused.

“That is what it means to be brave.” Moryn said. “Bravery does not exist as the absence of fear, it exists in spite of it. The only time a man can be brave, is when he feels afraid. You are scared to go to battle, scared to face your bannermen, scared of all your new responsibilities. And yet you persevere. That is bravery, my lord.”

A yawn escaped Moryn involuntarily. “I must take my leave, Lord Stark. This has been an enlightening conversation. Good night, Lord Eddard.” He said, leaving the man to his thoughts with a pat on the back. 

“Ned.”

Moryn turned around with a raised eyebrow that Stark definitely did not see in the light. He seemed to get the idea, however.

“Call me Ned.”

Moryn smiled a small smile, before saying his goodbyes.

“Good night, Ned.”

. . .

They arrived at Pyke just before midday the next day. The other Reach lords were hammering away at the northern walls, drawing all the attention of Greyjoy’s garrison. With them safely distracted, The Stark, Baratheon, and Roxton men got to working on their siege machines. _One of those names seems as though it doesn’t belong amongst the other two. _They assembled them in record time. The first stone was ready before any alarm was sounded. The southern wall fell ten minutes later.

Moryn was among the first over the wall, two or three minutes behind the likes of Jorah Mormont, and Thoros of Myr. Left hand wielding Orphan-Maker, he started cutting down ironborn with a fury he had never known. _The quicker this is over, the quicker Lorence gets out of the line of fire._ He was counting the ironborn that fell to his blade, Valyrian steel slicing through chainmail and boiled leather like a hot knife through butter. _Four-and-twenty, five-and-twenty, six-and-twenty._ At nine-and-twenty, a young man with the kraken sigil displayed proudly on his breastplate, charged at him, attacking with the fury of ten men.

Moryn was put on the back foot at first, but the anger in the young man, who Moryn had deduced as Maron Greyjoy, Balon’s now eldest, quickly made way to exhaustion. His strikes got slower, and less controlled. His breathing got heavier, and his feet looked heavier. Moryn countered another sloppy strike with a quick riposte, before giving the boy a strong kick to his breastplate.

The boy fell backward to the castle floor. Moryn moved to finish him off, but then, the castle wall that Greyjoy lay under collapsed from a projectile launched from a siege engine. Moryn had already started to move toward the Greyjoy lad when the wall collapsed. He managed to jump out of the way, for the most part, but a heavy stone brick landed forcefully on his left ankle, before rolling off.

His ankle screamed in pain. There was no way he was even going to be able to get up, let alone continue fighting. He looked for Humfrey, but he remembered that the boy had dragged away another wounded man during his duel with Greyjoy. He held his sword protectively in front of him as he sat up. Even the small movement caused his ankle to throb excruciatingly. He looked around desperately, trying to catch the eye of someone who might drag him to safety. _Because if I stay here, I am fucked. Well and truly fucked._

He did catch someone’s eye. However, instead of crowned stag, a direwolf, or interlocking rings decorating the boiled leather armour, he saw the kraken of Greyjoy. The ironborn man began making his way to Moryn. The man had a mad light in his eye, and an evil smile on his face. He let out a laugh, as if he enjoyed having his King’s home torn to shreds. “That is a beautiful sword!” The man proclaimed, nearly upon him. “And you’re practically already dead! This will be the cheapest price I’ve ever had to pay for a weapon!”

The man brought down a fierce overhead strike, which Moryn barely deflected with Orphan-Maker, the vibration going throughout his entire body, sending additional flares of pain down his ankle. As the ironborn went to make another, harder strike, a long, dark, smoky blade stained with blood emerged from the man’s sternum. If Moryn had not been in a near pain-delirious state, he would’ve recognized the smoky ripples that denote Valyrian steel, and the near impractical length of the greatsword. Ice was removed from the ironborn’s back, and Moryn recognized his saviour. _I could be comatose and I’d recognize that sigil._ Ned Stark offered him a nod, which Moryn returned, before calling for a man named “Rodrik”. 

A greying, yet strong man with long whiskers was lifting him up onto his feet, putting Moryn’s good arm around his shoulders for support. Every step felt like he was dipping his ankle in wildfire, but after what seemed like forever, they arrived in a tent, where the man with whiskers made to leave, presumably to rejoin the battle. Moryn stopped him on the way out with a hand on the wrist. 

“Should I n-not get the chance to t-tell him m-myself, I b-beg you inform your l-lord that I am forever in his d-debt.” Moryn forced out, long since delirious with pain.

“What name shall I give him?” The older man asked.

“L-l-lord M-Moryn Roxton, s-ser.”

The older man gave him a smile and a nod, clearly eager to rejoin the battle. Before leaving he turned back.

“You may be disappointed, my lord.”

Moryn downed some nearby milk of the poppy, ignoring the taste, and promptly passed out

. . .

Moryn woke up to the noise outside significantly quieter than he remembered it being when he had gone into his poppy-induced coma. He also felt a body, a smaller one, breathing evenly while leaning over his bed. Moryn opened his eyes, to see a dark tent, with enough moonlight coming through the still-open flap to get a good look at the intruder. 

Lorence had clearly fallen asleep by his side, watching over his father, which just about made his heart burst with affection. That, and an all-consuming feeling of absolute relief. _He’s okay. My boy is alright. Whoever you are, wherever you are, thank you for listening._

He smoothed some of Lorence’s hair out of his face, causing Lorence to stir. Lorence opened his eyes, a look of initial annoyance that he always wore when awoken on his face. That look quickly made way to surprise, and relief. Lorence threw his arms around his father, squeezing tight. Moryn squeezed him just as tightly back. 

“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay…”

Moryn wasn’t sure which one of them was saying it, or even if it was both. All he knew was that his son was safe, and in his embrace. And that was all that mattered.

. . .

Moryn was still bedridden when time came for the victory feast. The Usurper had come by to check on him, giving him a pat on the shoulder for “killing the Kraken’s heir”, before asking if he was well enough to come to the feast. Moryn glanced to the Pyke maester, before flexing his left foot. The sharp, stabbing pain that shot up through his entire leg killed any chance he had of celebrating the victory. He told that to the Usurper, who merely offered a muttered “a damn shame” before walking out. 

Lorence came by three times during the feast, each time bringing some food. It turned out that Ser Arys had forbidden Lorence from getting within the range of the castles archers, unless Arys himself was injured. Ser Arys Oakheart was one of the best swords in the reach, and so Lorence was given no incentive to get within range of the Pyke archers. Each time Lorence came in, he apologized for the lack of ale. 

“They wouldn’t give me any, even when I told them it was for you, not me.” Lorence said with an apologetic smirk.

“I wouldn’t either.” Moryn said. “That shit-eating grin of yours screams mischief. You’re just like your mother.” Lorence had smiled at that, staying and eating with Moryn for a bit, before being ushered back to the feast.

Much later into the night, he received a different visitor. Ned Stark, _for he was ‘Ned’ now, _walked through the tent flap, and gave him a small smile, holding up a pitcher of ale. “Your son may have attempted to get you some ale three or four times.”

Moryn let out a chuckle, accepting a cup from Ned, and clinking tankards with him as he sat down. “I don’t know if your older, whisker-bearing knight told you,” he began, Ned chuckling at his description, “but you saved my life, Ned. I am forever in your debt.”

Ned offered him that small smile, the one Moryn had learned was the most genuine smile that you’d get out of Ned Stark.

“You owe me no debt, Moryn.” Ned said, Moryn smiling a little at the informal address. “I was repaying a debt I owed you.”  
“What debt would that be?”

Ned gave him a determined look. “Had you not informed me of Lyanna’s location, things may have gone much worse.” He said, vaguely. _If anything, he overshared with me before. Why the vagueness now?_ He tried to respond neutrally, as not to seem too eager for more details.

“There is a difference between you saving my life permanently, and my information granting you a few extra minutes with your sister, Ned.”

Ned gave him a long look. He was definitely holding something back, but Moryn could not tell what. Finally, Ned spoke again. 

“Your information did save a life, Moryn. Not mine, nor my sister’s, but one very dear to me.”

Before Moryn could question further, Ned had downed his tankard and left into the night air.

. . .

_295 A.C._

Rejoining the present, Moryn broke the direwolf seal. 

_To Lord Moryn Roxton, Lord of Bandallon_

_I’m aware it has been quite a while since we’ve exchanged words, Moryn. I apologize for that. I hope you will be pleased to know that I have put your advice to good use. I have made sure to pass on the knowledge you have bestowed upon me to my children. I pray that it helps them in their future endeavours as much as it helped me._

_While it would be nice for this letter to be naught but a catch up amongst old friends, there is a purpose. I was wondering if I could ask a massive favour of you. My baseborn son, Jon Snow, is two-and-ten years old. I have raised him in Winterfell, alongside my trueborn children, which, predictably, has caused a rift between my wife and I. I understand that your son and heir Ser Lorence is currently without a squire. I remember the boy, now man, from the victory feast at Pyke all those years ago, trying to sneak you ale._

_I ask that you have your son take my son as a squire. The boy is a talented rider and swordsman, but he will never reach his true potential here. Not with the environment being the way it is for him. He is a good, dutiful boy. I can personally vouch for his character. _

_He is very dear to me._

_Lord Eddard Stark_

_Lord of Winterfell_

_Warden of the North_

_‘He is very dear to me.’_

That was an odd ending. What was the last thing Ned had spoken to him, before this letter? 

_‘Your information did save a life, Moryn. Not mine, nor my sister’s, but one very dear to me’_

Moryn called for Maester Toman, telling him to bring some parchment, a quill and some ink. He had a raven to send.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is Jon I, with Lorence I following that.
> 
> I make zero promises as to a timeline, bc Star Wars, Jedi: Fallen Order was released a few days ago, and I am addicted.


	3. JON I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A harmless prank goes horribly wrong. Or horribly right. Depending on who you ask.

JON I

“Scared of some little ladies, brother?”

“Jon’s scared of little ladies!”

Jon directed a pointed look towards the speaker of that last taunt, who was having trouble holding back her laughter. Arya stuck out her tongue at his look, causing the trio to burst into laughter. Arya had gone to Robb first, with her “genius, foolproof, perfect” plan, as she so eloquently put it. While Robb likely put up a small fight, he always succumbed fairly quickly to Arya’s wide-eyed, pleading look, the look that got her out of trouble _constantly_. The little troublemaker likely knew Jon would be more difficult, dragging Robb along to give support to her puppy-dog eyes, and failing that, insult his masculinity.

_She’s far too clever for her own good_.

“It’s a harmless prank, Jon.” Robb reasoned, as if he still thought Jon was capable of saying no to his little sister. “We don’t even need you to _do_ anything, just stand guard at the corridor while the little wolf and I get set up, and signal when you see them.” Jon put on an overly-dramatic, thoughtful look, as if aiding in this bit of mischief was the most difficult decision he’s ever had to make. If anything, this was a good distraction to his previous thoughts.

While Robb and Arya were correct in assuming his reluctance, they were not correct as to the reason. Had their lord father been in Winterfell, Jon would’ve been far more pliant. Lord Eddard Stark left his castle sparingly, and not without good reason. This time, small groups of ironborn were spotted raiding along the stony shore. Robb had begged his father to take him with. Jon, ever his shadow, was there right along with him. No matter how much they begged, their lord father held firm. 

“I will not bring boys of two-and-ten to battle” he had said, though not unkindly. “You two have only recently graduated from wooden swords to tourney swords. Stay children a bit longer. You’ve no need to throw yourself into manhood before you’re ready.” Due to the nature of the threat, Theon was to be shadowed by two guards at all times, leaving him perpetually grumpy, preferring to stay in his rooms and sulk, much to Robb’s chagrin. 

While their lord father was off killing ironborn and seeing to the safety of his lands, the household was left in the care of Lady Catelyn. Which to Robb and Arya, meant they had to be sneakier when the itch for rule breaking came upon them, as they would not be able to escape punishment. For Jon, however, it meant being on his absolute best behaviour, at all times, and staying out of sight as best he could. He had learned a long time ago that the less he saw Lady Catelyn, the happier he would be, the same seemingly being true for her. And so, took his meals at the lower tables, _away from my family_. Also, he was conveniently absent when she decided to drop by the training yards to see her son’s progress with a sword. It was either that, or throw _every_ match. _I won’t give her the satisfaction. Especially when everyone, Robb included, knows I’m the better sword._

Pushing down his dark thoughts once again, he thought on it. He silently admitted to himself that their plan left him almost completely blameless. Also, he wouldn’t be punished harshly since their father would be home in a week. And so, he acquiesced. Arya’s beaming smile, shout of victory, and the crushing embrace that followed made him feel a lot better about the whole thing.

_She’s constantly told that everything about the way she is, is wrong. This is the least I can do to make her happy._

“That’s the spirit!” Robb exclaimed as he patted on on the shoulder. “I’ll make sure mother knows your blameless.” Robb whispered, leaning in so Arya couldn’t hear. That was Robb, ever so considerate. Jon had an inkling that Robb knew immediately why Jon was hesitant, and a small gesture like that reminded Jon why he loves Robb so much.

_I’m going to miss him dearly._

Robb and Jon paid rapt attention as their little six year old commander laid out their battle plan. In fairness to Arya, it was quite the plan. She had left no stone unturned. Arya and Robb had already smuggled the two buckets, as well as the appropriate amount of water from under the nose of Vayon Poole. Arya had even gotten caught by one of the castle servants, but assured Robb and Jon that naught was amiss. _It appears that the puppy-dog eyes know no equal._

“I think I know the real reason you’re helping.” Jon whispered to Robb, the boys falling in behind Arya on their way to the scene of the crime.

“Oh?” Robb questioned. “What’s that?”

“I think you’re trying to—” Jon looked for the right word. “_discourage _the good _Lady Poole_ from her obvious fancy of you. Make her think that you’re a brute, _against the very nature of the things, distasteful in the light of the Seven who are One._” Jon finished with a flowery Southern accent, imitating the old septa. Robb’s eye-roll gave him all the answer he needed, eliciting a laugh from Jon. Even Robb’s responding glare didn’t quiet him down. Their commander wasn’t having that.

“Quiet!” The little she-wolf hissed, turning back to face them. “You’re going to ruin everything!”

Arya turned back around, seemingly satisfied with the admonished looks the boys wore, and continued on. “You know,” Robb began. “If Jeyne ever got over her ridiculous fancy of me, she’d make a good wife for you.” It was Robb’s turn to laugh now, at the grimace that now decorated Jon’s face.

“What?” Robb continued, barely suppressing his laughter. “She’s Vayon’s prettiest daughter! Not quite as pretty as you, is that the issue?” The boys shared more suppressed laughter, as to not draw further ire from their fearless leader. 

“She’s his only daughter, first of all.”

“My second point still stands.”

“She’s insipid, second of all.”

“Don’t let Sansa hear you say that.”

_Not like she acknowledges my existence anyway_

“She nearly fainted when Asher Forrester asked her to dance last Harvest Feast. Feinted! If you ask her next week, she may actually drop dead.”

“You still haven’t denied the second part.”

“Nor will I.”

That got another laugh from the boys. Banter with Robb was fun, even though they never addressed the _real _reason the subject of their jokes would never come to pass. Robb didn’t bring it up for fear of hurting Jon, as Theon did, while Jon never brought it up because not only was it a sore point, it made Robb uncomfortable. _Not like it’s something I enjoy joking about, anyway. _The conversation ended, as they had arrived at their destination, the archway down the hall from the sewing chambers. Commander Underfoot turned around, and began ordering them into position.

“Robb, the buckets are at the top of the stairs. Grab them, and meet me at the balcony above the archway. Jon, stay right here. When you see Sansa, Jeyne and the septa, what are you to do?”

Jon knew his part well. “I yell: ‘Robb, have you seen my tourney sword?’, right?”

“Right. And then Robb and I wait above the archway, and when they walk under, we’ll soak them! We’re going to get those two.” Arya said, determination and excitement dancing in her eyes. “See if they laugh at my stitches again.”

“You could always practice more, so that they won’t be crooked.”

“You're a real idiot, you know that Robb?”

Robb and Arya ran away, bickering, leaving Jon alone in front of the archway. Thankfully, the stables were right nearby, and his sightline of the archway was not inhibited. He pretended to be brushing his rouncey, and waited.

Not long after, he spotted a flash of auburn, and the unsuspecting victims were making their way towards the archway, completely oblivious as to what was about to happen. “He’s so dashing, Sansa.” He could hear Jeyne saying in the corridor. “_Please_, anything you can do, there’s nothing I want more.” Jon smirked. _Even more teasing material. This might actually be worth it._ Sansa acquiesced hesitantly to _whatever_ was being asked of her. _Here we go._

Jon stepped out from behind his horse and, doing his best mummer’s work, looked around the stable floor. Clearly not finding what he was looking for, he said his line.

“Robb, have you seen my tourney sword?!”

He had caught the attention of the trio, who quickly decided his issue was none of their business. The septa didn’t let him go without a scowl, however. A quick glance up to the balcony, he caught the eyes of his siblings. They had their buckets in hand, ready to go. _This is my cue to leave._ He didn’t however. Some petty, vindictive part of him wanted to see the surly septa soaked, after that look. And so he stayed by his horse, and watched.

With a shout, Robb and Arya upended their buckets, cold water falling fifteen feet onto the unsuspecting victims. All three let out matching shrieks, as they were soaked to the bone. The septa’s ridiculous hat even came off, showing her shaved head. That, along with the horrified look on her face, broke the dam. 

Jon erupted with laughter, drowned out by the even louder guffaws coming from Robb and Arya, who had made their way down as quickly as possible, as to soak in as much of the reaction as possible. 

“Got you!” Arya was saying. “Got you, got you, got you!”

Sansa and Jeyne shared angry glares at the youngest Stark sister. Jeyne quickly forced a smile to her face, however, once Robb came along laughing just as hard. _Mission failed, it seems. Nice try, Robb._

Sansa was calling Arya horrid, lamenting how her dress was completely _ruined_, and how _Mother will hear about this_. Robb was doing his best to placate the two warring sisters, laughing all the while. Jon was just about ready to leave the his siblings to their bickering, when he heard Arya.

“Like you can’t have five more made! Stop being a baby! Anyway, I’m going for a ride. Oh Jon! Did you see their faces?! Thanks for the help, by the way!”

All eyes turned towards him, nearly out of the stable_. _The septa was glaring at him as though he was the dirt beneath her toenails, the other two victims looking at him expectantly. And so Jon did the only thing he could in that situation. In a tone that was fooling absolutely no one, he plead his innocence.

“Little sister, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

. . .

He came back from his ride with Arya half an hour before dinner. Fat Tom was waiting for them. “Lady Arya, Jon Snow, the Lady Stark has summoned you to her solar.” _Here we go._

Jon helped Arya down from her pony, but not before his little sister grumbled a halfhearted “I can do it myself.” With a smile, and a ruffle of her hair, they made their way up to Lady Stark’s solar. 

When they entered, Robb was there already. As were Sansa, Jeyne, and the septa. And Lady Stark, of course. She began by addressing her eldest. “What happened, Robb?” 

Robb told it exactly like it was. How, he and Arya had poured buckets of water on Sansa, Jeyne and septa Mordane as a prank. After a strict look from her mother, Arya admitted to the story Robb told. 

Lady Stark seemed somewhat satisfied she had the truth. “And what of your half brother?”

Before anyone could say anything, Robb came to his defence. “Jon didn’t do anything. He was looking for his tourney sword, or something, by the stables.” Jon caught his eye, sending him a silent thanks.

If Lady Stark was disappointed that she couldn’t punish him, she hid it well.

“For your punishment,” Lady Stark said. “You shall make all necessary appearances at the welcoming feast for your father, and that’s it. To bed early after that. Now go.”

Robb and Arya left disappointed, that much was clear. But Jon was ecstatic. _I’ll have someone to talk to while the feast is going on!_ He could imagine it already. Robb, Arya, and him, hanging out in Robb’s room. Maybe he and Robb could sneak a wineskin from the kitchens to share. He then snuck a look at the victims. Sansa and the septa seemed haughty, as if they had won this particular fight. Jeyne, on the other hand, seemed horrified. Before Jon could even begin to fathom why, she spoke.

“He’ll miss the dancing?!” She shrieked, horrified, before remembering who she was speaking to. “Begging my lady’s pardon.” Sansa’s victorious look turned to one of understanding, and then sympathy. _Ah, it appears young Lady Poole wished to share a dance with the heir to Winterfell. A shame. _Jeyne looked around frantically, as if someone was going to burst out from the shadows and fix all her problems. Her eyes then fell upon Jon, who had stopped on the way out after Jeyne’s outburst. Her eyes lit up. _What does she think I’m going to do? _

But it wasn’t what Jon was going to do that caused Jeyne’s excitement.

“It was him!” She pointed at Jon. “He planned the whole thing! He saw us coming through the corridor, and called out to Lord Robb and Lady Arya to poor water on us! I saw him laughing, he meant to humiliate us!”

Jon wore a puzzled look, and both Sansa and the septa didn’t seem quite sure what Jeyne was on about. Lady Stark eyed him, eyes freezing over, colder than the Wall, before turning back to Jeyne. 

“Robb and Arya have both said that the boy did nothing.” Lady Stark said, voice betraying nothing.

“He must’ve tricked them!” Jeyne said, voice getting higher and more shrill. “You know what they say of bastards, my lady. Perhaps he threatened them to remain silent, so he could avoid punishment. Those who are bastard born are born vile and treacherous, my lady, the Seven Pointed Star says so!. I think Ro-Lord Robb and Lady Arya innocent here.” 

“Arya did thank Jon after.” Sansa meekly spoke up, meeting Jon’s eyes quickly before finding something of massive interest on the floor to stare at.

“You see, my lady?” Jeyne said, getting more confident after adding Sansa’s word to her own. “He is the one at fault, not Robb or Arya.”

Lady Stark turned to glare at him then, a small look of triumph in her eyes. Jon instinctively turned to where Robb had been, only to remember that he and Arya had left. _As I was about to._ He was on his own. “You’re right, Jeyne.” Lady Stark said. “The bastard clearly is the one at fault.” 

Jon had been getting progressively angrier throughout the entire interrogation, ever since his supposed _bastard’s nature_ was brought into the conversation. He assessed the faces in the room. Jeyne looked ecstatic, Lady Stark triumphant, and the septa looked as though nothing out of the ordinary was being said. Only Sansa seemed remorseful, but she hid it when he sent her a pleading look. _Bastards don’t get to be fairly judged, it seems. _

“Am I not going to get a chance to defend myself?” Jon said, losing his temper. Lady Stark sent him a cold look.

“Go on then.”

“I signalled to Robb and Arya when to get ready to drop the water.” Jon said. “That is it.”

“So you lied.”

“No, Robb lied.” _You’re making it worse, you idiot._

“You had him lie for you.” Lady Stark said. “Why?” _Don’t say something stupid, don’t say something stupid…_

“Because if I was involved at all, I would get punished far more severely for no reason, because you hate me.”

Silence fell over the room. Lady Stark fixed him with a look so cold, it would freeze Dorne itself. _Nice going, Snow. _She stared at him for what felt like an eternity. Eventually her voice, colder than Jon had ever heard it cut through the silence like a longsword.

“Everyone. Out.”

The septa got up so quickly, Jon could hear the creaking of her joints from where he sat. Sansa and Jeyne were escorted out without a second look at either of them. He now sat alone in a room with Catelyn Stark. _I’ve had nightmares less scary than this. _Lady Stark’s first words to him were calmer than he expected.

“You forget your place.”

Jon nodded and made to answer, before being cut off.

“Let me give you some well meant advice, bastard.” Lady Stark said, scorn seeping through her forced calm. “The best way to climb out of a hole is to stop digging.” Jon merely nodded. _A warning. An olive branch, even, if I’m lucky. Bastard’s are rarely lucky. _He knew he would never placate her now. He’s never been this disrespectful, never given voice to his thoughts before. _No matter how _true _my words were._

“You know of the state of the Broken Tower, I presume?”

Her next question confused him. _Where did that come from?_ The Broken Tower used to be the tallest building in Winterfell, until 140 years ago, when it had been struck by lightning. The tower had never been restored, and so the living quarters in the tower had been since abandoned. He nodded again, not trusting himself to speak.

“Lord Stark had plans to restore the living quarters.” Lady Stark said, the safer, yet still confusing topic seemingly allowing some calmness to re enter her voice. “Maester Luwin thinks this upcoming winter will be quite harsh, the harshest we’ve seen in a long time. Should we need to house homeless smallfolk, the more space we have, the better.”

She then abandoned the attempt to remain calm, cold anger completely overtaking her tone. “This is normally a job for servants. Vayon Poole could have his staff finish the task in three days. But Vayon’s servants are too busy serving the trueborn members of House Stark to worry about such a thing. So as punishment for humiliating two highborn ladies and a septa, as well as openly disrespecting the Lady of the castle you reside in, you shall do it all. Alone.”

_The castle you reside in._

That did it. All of Jon’s control completely disappeared. _The castle you reside in._ As though he was simply living here. As though he wasn’t anymore than a mere servant, residing inside the castle walls, subservient to all those who order him about. As though _it was not his home_. A statement that told him that no matter what Robb and Arya and even little Bran said, he didn’t belong. 

“The castle I reside in?” He said, voice rising in anger. “Winterfell is my _home_! I don’t just _live_ here! If you think you can force me to do the work normally requiring tens of servants, _alone_, as punishment for something I _did not do, _you are mistaken, my lady.”

“I am the Lady of this castle, and while my Lord husband is away—”

“He’ll be home in a week. Let’s see then what he thinks of my _punishment._” He spat the word like it was the bile it felt like. “_Especially_ after he hears what Arya and Robb have to say.”

He could almost hear the twitch of her eye, she was so furious. Oddly, he found he didn’t care much. He _knew_ he was right. She was being petty and vindictive. It felt _good _to her to see him do the work of servants, as if she enjoyed reminding him of his place. 

_I’m to be a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch in a few years. I’ll be fighting wildlings and snowbears and shadowcats. All worse dangers than Catelyn _Tully _Stark._

She continued to glare at him, not saying a thing. He glared right back, defiantly. _I am right. I’ll make Father see._ Without breaking eye contact, she called to the door. 

“Quent!”

The guard at the door opened the door, entering quickly. He had obviously heard the voices, for he clearly noticed the tension in the room. He looked back and forth between the Lady and the bastard, no doubt wondering why he was called upon.

“Milady?”

“Escort my husband’s bastard back to his quarters.” Lady Stark said, venom coating her tone like gravy over a roast. “He is to be confined there indefinitely, until my Lord husband returns. Understood?”

Quent nodded solemnly, walking over and placing a hand on Jon’s shoulder, eyes searching his own. _Please come willingly,_ they seemed to say. Jon felt the fight drain out of him. He nodded once to Quent, leaving the room without another look back at Catelyn Tully Stark.

Quent followed him closely as he walked back to his chambers. Once there, Quent opened the door for him, patted him on the shoulder once, a small, sad smile on his face. Jon entered his chambers, falling face first into his bed. The gravity of the situation seemed to hit him all at once. Had it been worth it? Truly? To say what he’d always wanted to say, in his bitterest moments? _Probably not._ It may have felt good to say such things at the time, but the guilt set in the more he thought about it. _What would Robb and Arya say, to see me speak to their mother that way?_ Some traitorous part of his mind didn’t care, standing behind what he said. It felt as if he had two warring factions in his head, arguing the merits of what he had said.

In one ear, he heard the voice admonishing him for his actions. It sounded calm, and reasonable. _An awful lot like Father._ Telling him he had reacted rashly, letting his temper wrestle control away from his good sense. But once he started to agree with that voice, another one seemed to speak into his other ear.

This one sounded oddly like Theon Greyjoy, in a way. Rash, and bold. Telling him to give in to his baser instincts. _Maybe this is the so-called “wolf’s blood” father speaks of. _It had felt _good_ to say those things, at the time. He spoke with anger, but the anger was warranted. He lost his temper, only because she provoked him. If she had wanted him to speak rationally, why had she insulted him so?

_Because she is the Lady of Winterfell. It matters not how she speaks, as she has the authority to speak how she likes. You do not, _the calm voice spoke.

_Who cares? If she didn’t like being spoken to disrespectfully, she shouldn’t speak disrespectfully. She got what she deserved, _the rash voice countered.

_You refused to obey direct orders from the Lady of Winterfell. No matter the reason, you were raised better than that,_ the calm voice shot back.

_They were ridiculous orders, vindictive and vengeful, punishment for an offence I didn’t commit! _The rash voice answered, this debate clearly going nowhere.

Jon groaned, frustrated at his own internal conflict. He decided tonight was not the night to settle a debate. It was probably the middle of dinner, but Jon was exhausted. _That will be a problem for future Jon._ He pulled his furs over his body, and drifted off to sleep.

. . . 

Quent told him, the next morning, that Arya had tried to come see him multiple times. Firstly, while he was still in Lady Stark’s solar. She had noticed he had not followed them out after a few minutes. When she ran back to get him, she’d seen the septa escorting Sansa and Jeyne out of the room. Quent had given her a look. When Arya had given him a look back, he had said, “Not a good time, Underfoot.” Arya had brought him food from dinner, after, asking why he wasn’t there, and _why the hells are you guarding his door?._ That got a small chuckle from Jon. She had tried again just five minutes before, Quent turning her away again. He had heard his little sister that time, petulant complains of“_why?!_” being thrown at the poor guard. Jon had given Quent an apologetic smile at that.

Arya stopped trying after the third day. Apparently Robb had tried a few times, but had taken Quent’s refusal much better. Even Bran had come the fourth day, asking where Jon was, and why he wasn’t around to play. _Lady Stark_ _really gave her children no explanations, it seems._ It was like she thought that if Jon was out of site, her children would forget the demonspawn that was their half-brother had existed in the first place. _I know a thing or two about wishful thinking, my lady. I could’ve told you that it never works. And that it only hurts you more in the end._

The first person to open his door that wasn’t Quent came on the eighth day. A few hours after Jon had eaten his dinner, his lord father entered through his door. All bitterness about his confinement was lost when he saw his father’s long face and grey eyes, so much like his own. He gave his father a strong embrace. His father returned it instantly, chuckling. Jon began rattling questions off, prodding for any war story he could, just like he did after the Greyjoy rebellion six years ago. There was something about being around his father that made Jon feel like a young child again. He was so strong, so stable, so _good._ _If I’m ever half as good as Father, I will die happy._

After Jon had his little moment, his father’s expression turned serious. _And so it begins._

“You weren’t in the courtyard when I returned, Jon. I wondered where you were.”

“I wasn’t allowed. I didn’t even know you were back until just now.”

“I know that now. My lady wife is wroth with you.” His father gave him a look, cutting off his instantaneous protest. “I’m not fool enough to think her explanation unbiased. Tell me your side of things.”

Jon did just that. He told his father about the prank, including his role in it, noting the lack of a reprimand. That wasn’t a surprise. Robb and Jon used to prank the castle guards all the time, Fat Tom being the usual victim. Jon moved on to the conversation with Lady Stark in her solar, and his initial innocence in her eyes. His father nodded again, unsurprised. Jon spoke of Robb and Arya’s extremely temporary punishment, and Jeyne Poole’s panic at not being able to dance with Robb at the welcome home feast. Judging by Lord Stark’s expression, this part was omitted by his wife. 

Jon then spoke of the tale Jeyne had so desperately weaved, eager to condemn Jon to get Robb out of his punishment. This had also surprised his father. “So she wanted so desperately to dance with Robb at the feast, that she attempted to get him out of his punishment by propping you up as the one at fault?” 

“Yes.”

“That explains what happened at the feast then.” His father said, a thoughtful look on his face.

“What do you mean?” Jon asked.

“Vayon and I were watching Robb and Jeyne dance at the feast tonight.” His father said. “Robb looked rather uncomfortable, which Vayon and I were having a laugh over, when his whole mood changed. He stopped dancing with her, glared at her, and left her alone on the floor. He left the feast entirely, afterward. Jeyne was inconsolable.”

“She told him what she’d done, thinking he’d appreciate it, didn’t she?” _I’ll make sure to cry all my tears for the poor Lady Poole._

“I believe so.” His father said. “Back to what happened last week. Continue.”

Jon spoke sheepishly of speaking back to Lady Stark. “I spoke disrespectfully, I know that.” He said. “But she was certain of my guilt without even speaking to me. Then I let my anger get the better of me.” He didn’t want to elaborate, but his father’s kind yet imploring gaze insisted. “She asked why Robb lied for me when she asked of my involvement, and I told her what I thought to be the truth, no matter how disrespectful.” 

He had his father’s full attention now. “Go on.” His father said.

“I said that Robb lied for me because I would get judged far more harshly than my siblings, because she hates me.” His father wore a look of disbelief. The shame that had been eating away at his insides seemingly increased its appetite tenfold. He rushed out the rest of the story before his father could reprimand him. “She ordered the girls and septa out, and told me I forgot my place. I agreed, but then as punishment for something I didn’t do, she told me to restore the living quarters of the broken tower. All by myself! She had no proof I did anything, and she basically said that I wasn’t welcome at Winterfell.” There were tears falling now, and he wiped them away furiously. _I’m near a man grown, I can’t be crying in front of my father._ “I lost my temper, and refused. I told her that Winterfell was my home, and that I wasn’t going to be treated like this, and that you wouldn’t approve of it, and she told Quent to take me to my room and I haven’t left since.” He finished his rambling, feeling a fur cloak pressing into his face, strong arms wrapping around him. He sank into his father’s embrace, letting out all the emotions he’d kept inside since that conversation one week ago.

After he’d calmed, he pulled out of his father’s arms, ashamed he’d cried in front of his father. His father’s kind eyes pulled his own from the floor. 

“I must say,” he said, almost to himself. “Catelyn told a story about a disrespectful little boy who didn’t know his place.” _He’s going to take his wife’s side, of course. No one cares about a bastard._

“But she doesn’t know my son like I do.” His father continued, a soft smile on his face. _He believes me._ Jon wore a much larger smile, before hugging his father again. It was a quick one, and when he pulled away, his father wore Lord Stark’s face, not father’s.

“Catelyn was right about one thing though Jon.” He said. “You do need to remember your status. I know it hurts, I know it’s unfair, but it’s your reality. No matter how good you are with a sword,or how good you are on a horse, Robb, Bran and Rickon will always receive more praise. That is just the way of the world we live in. Is it unfair? Yes. But so is life. I lost my father, brother, and sister to war within two years of each other. Was that fair? Of course not. Even though I was never supposed to be Lord of Winterfell, it was my duty. I did not want it. But life is not about what we want, it is about what we must do. Your duty is to faithfully serve your brothers as long as they will have you.” His father let those words sink in, before patting his shoulder, and turning to leave. He stopped at Jon’s voice.

“What if I went somewhere where they didn’t care?” Jon said. “What if I went somewhere even bastards can rise high?”

His father gave him a pensive look. “What did you have in mind?” Jon cleared his throat, preparing his pitch. 

“It sounds nice, to say that I could serve Robb or even Bran or Rickon one day. But Lady Stark barely suffers my presence now. When I am a man grown, she will be even more insistent that I leave. Quen- A guard told me once how she fears that I will usurp Robb’s place as Lord of Winterfell. Even though everyone in the castle knows I would never even attempt such a thing, and that none of your bannermen would ever let such a thing happen, she believes it all the same. If it’s not me who will usurp him, then my children will usurp Robb’s children. What if I went somewhere where I gave up all claims to any land? Where I gave up all rights to have children? Where I could rise high, regardless of my status, serve an honourable calling, all the while easing the mind of—”

“You’re not going to the Wall, Jon.”

“_Why not?!”_

Jon flushed and looked to the floor, rightfully admonished by the look his father gave him. His voice had risen more than he intended, but his emotions were stretched thin, and it was late, _and it makes perfect sense, why doesn’t he _see _it—_

_“_You’ve only known two-and-ten years, Jon.” His father said, though not unkindly. “And while I’m sure my wife would support such a choice, I do not. The Stark’s have always been friends of the Watch, and your Uncle Benjen loves to remind me how much they need good men. But you are not a man, you’re still a boy. You should get to see the world before you swear your life away. That is one of the advantages of your status, son. You are free of responsibility, officially. I would suggest that you take advantage of that before making such a choice.”

“This is what I want.” Jon said, his voice rising . “I don’t want to be free of responsibility. I don’t want to _see the world_, I want to _mean_ something!”

“You do.” His father said quietly, eyes growing impossibly sad.

“You know what I mean.” Jon said, not having intended to insult his father. “I want to be seen as more than the sole stain on the great Eddard Stark’s honour. I want to be known for more than my name, or lack thereof. I want—” Jon’s voice broke. He finished his sentence quietly. 

“I want them to say that Eddard Stark fathered four sons, not three.”

His father put his hand on Jon’s shoulder. Identical dark grey eyes met. 

“Life is not about what we want, son. It is about—”

“What we must do.” Jon finished, dejected.

“Aye.” Lord Stark said. “Should you still wish to join once you’ve seen eight-and-ten years, you may. But not yet. Live your life first.”

“Yes, father.” Jon mumbled, eyes on his toes.

“Get some sleep, son.” His father said, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Your confinement is over, by the way. You can return to your daily routine tomorrow.” Jon only nodded in response. Just before he closed the door, his father turned.

“Don’t be so down, son.” He said. “I’m sure you’ll find some way to occupy the next six years.”

. . . 

Jon had just finished beating Robb for the ninth straight spar, spanning the past few days. Robb was getting more and more frustrated, making the victories easier and easier. Robb got frustrated easily while sparring, Jon knew, and he did his best to dodge or block all of Robb’s attacks, nevergoing on the offensive. Once Robb began to feel humiliated, he would attack harder, and less controlled. A quick riposte to one of the less controlled attacks and Jon had Robb yielding or disarmed. Robb was perpetually grumpy the last few days, a fact with Theon found _hilarious_. _There’s not much he doesn’t find hilarious. _When Robb had suggested Theon spar Jon himself, however, Greyjoy suddenly had archery to practice. _Convenient._

Jon had been training extra, extra hard these past few days. Ever since the conversation with his father, Jon had been a different man. If he had to wait until he was eight-and-ten to join the Watch, he would enter through the gates of Castle Black in top form. 

“You’ve been an animal lately, Snow.” Robb said, getting off the ground where Jon had just put him. “What’s changed?” _There’s no point in having even _more _people try to convince me not to take the black._

“You look really funny when you’re pissed off.” Jon lied, “I’m working extra hard purely for my own entertainment.” Robb let out a laugh at that, attempting to hide the annoyance Jon could see in his eyes. Picking his tourney sword off the dirt, he faced Jon again, sword held up in challenge. _Damn stubborn, he is._

Jon feigned nonchalance, a bored look worn on his face. “Again, Stark? Trying to push your loss streak into double digits?” 

“Getting cocky Snow?”

“Me? Never.”

The boys shared a laugh before Robb went on the attack. Jon ducked a forehand swipe to his head, deflecting the backhand swipe back across before launching a focused attack. He rarely went on the attack against Robb, usually content to let him hack away, but he would get no better that way. He feigned a backhand strike to Robb’s right hip, coming inside Robb’s guard to get a good rap on the Robb’s wrist. Usually, that would make his brother drop his sword, but he held on this time.

Robb caught Job off guard with his quick answering strikes, Jon having to go on the defensive, against his will this time. He recovered his composure, and feigned a riposte before feigning going inside like he had before. Robb bit, and Jon stepped outside, planted his foot behind his brother, and shoved hard. Robb fell to the dirt, Jon’s knee on his chest, blade at his throat.

“Yield?”

“Yes, I yield, you arsehole.”

Jon helped him up laughing. Robb’s eyes weren’t on Jon, however, but someone on the balcony above him. _Shit._ Jon turned his head tentatively, and suppressed a sigh of relief of not seeing a head of auburn hair watching on. Instead, Lord Stark had been standing there watching, a proud look on his face.

“Well fought, boys.” Their father said. “Jon, I’d speak with you in my solar now.”

“Yes, father.”

Robb and Jon went to put away their swords. “What in seven hells have I done now?” He grumbled under his breath without thinking. He could see Robb tense, a small grimace on his face. They hadn’t spoken about the incident with Robb’s mother, and if Jon had his way, they never would. Robb had tried to apologize, as if it were somehow his fault, but Jon had shut that down right away. Jon had changed the subject immediately, and the topic hasn’t come up since. Thankfully, Robb didn’t seem eager to bring it up now.

Jon thanked Ser Rodrik, and headed up to his father’s solar. It wasn’t nearly as warm as Lady Stark’s, which made it all the more welcoming. The heat of Lady Stark’s solar had been near suffocating. _It probably still felt like the Lands of Always Winter to a southerner, though. _His father was sitting at his desk, and gestured to the seat across from him. He was holding a piece of a parchment.

“You did well out there,” his father said. “Might want to let Robb win every once in a while. He’s been grumpy enough as it is lately. I don’t even want to imagine it getting worse.”

The two shared a laugh at that, before getting to business. 

“In my hand here is a letter I mean to send to an old friend of mine.” Lord Stark started. “A letter pertaining to you. It is an offer to have you squire for his son and heir, and one day earn your spurs as a knight.”

Jon was shocked. _Me? A knight?_

“Yes, you.” His father said with a chuckle. _Said that out loud, didn’t I?_

“I’m honoured, father.” Jon said, not knowing how else to respond. “Truly. I never imagined…”

“I know. In truth, I should’ve done this a while ago.” His father said. _What does that mean?_ His good mood dimmed significantly, albeit briefly. “I was selfish. I wanted to keep you around. Most boys leave to be a page, around the age of seven or eight years. They officially become squires at one-and-ten or two-and-ten years.”

“So am I not too old?”

“To be a page, yes.” His father answered. “But that is no matter. A page is a glorified servant, anyway. You shall be a squire.”

“Who shall I squire for, father?” Jon asked. “You mentioned an old friend.” _Manderly maybe? I don’t know if father has any friends not of the north. They’re the only ones who follow the Seven._

“You shall squire for Ser Lorence Roxton.” Lord Stark answered. _Oh. I have zero clue who that is._ “His father Lord Moryn Roxton is the old friend I mentioned. I fought alongside him at Pyke. He was also the one who told me where to find your Aunt Lyanna.” He added quietly as an afterthought.

“I don’t recognize the name, father.” Jon said. “They’re not of the North?”

“No.” His father confirmed. “House Roxton is a noble house of the Reach, sworn to Highgarden and House Tyrell. If memory serves, Ser Lorence squired for Ser Arys Oakheart, now of the Kingsguard.”

_Wow. Robb will be _so_ jealous._

Jon must’ve sat in silent awe for awhile, because his father cleared his throat, causing Jon to snap to attention. “You can say no, should you wish, son.” Jon was confused. _Why would I say no?_ The question must’ve been written on his face, because his father’s turned grim, and he answered the unspoken question.

“Those in the south are different than northmen.” His father warned. “They are all followers of the Seven, and you know how _they_ feel about, er, people of your status.” That sobered Jon up real quick. _Lady Starks, _everywhere. _Sounds like a nightmare. _

Jon gulped, and asked, “Is Ser Lo-La”— “Lorence” — “Ser Lorence like that?”

His father gave him a sad look. “I don’t know. I know his father is not. Lord Moryn is one of the best men I’ve ever met. I have full confidence that he will not treat you poorly. Ser Lorence, however, I’m not sure. I knew a squire of three-and-ten years, trying to sneak his injured father ale from the victory feast at Pyke. He was a good lad then. Kind, courteous, full of easy smiles. That was six years ago, however. He may be completely different.”

Jon thought about it. He thought about it _really_ hard. He could be trained by a knight. A _real_ southern knight, like the ones from Maester Luwin’s histories. A Ser Ryam Redwyne, or a Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. _He may hate you, though._ He could have to serve a Lady Stark, only armoured and armed for the next few years. Or, if Ser Lorence was anything like how his father remembered, a true knight. _Do I want this?_

Jon Snow wanted to _mean_ something. More than anything else. Before, the only way that seemed possible was to join the Night’s Watch, and rise high. Maybe he would take over as First Ranger when his Uncle Benjen inevitably became Lord Commander one day. Then, Jon would take over from Uncle Benjen. He’d had it all planned out.

This made him reconsider all he thought he wanted. A knight commands respect. He _demands_ respect. Even a bastard knight. A bastard knight, even more so, to some. Many highborn are knighted for small, insignificant things. A bastard knight needs to earn their knighthood. Any Ser Waters, Ser Flowers, Ser Sand, Ser Hill, Ser _whatever_ had to do something truly worthy of a knighthood to feel the steel touch their shoulders. _I could even take my own name. Wash out the stain of Snow from my cloak for good. _

He was taking a risk, that’s for sure.

But it was worth it.

He’s sure.

Jon looked to his father, identical grey eyes meeting.

“I accept, father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some small things that were *implied*, but since i kinda suck at writing subtleties, i thought i'd add them here, to clear up any potential confusion.
> 
> \- jon calls jeyne "lady poole" as a sort of mockery, seeing as she's only a steward's daughter, but acts a noble lady. she does this in canon too, see the tourney of the hand. He views her as someone who tries to live above her station. Jon is very hypocritical at the beginning of AGOT, and I'm using this to portray that. He will be humbled, do not worry.  
\- i know the part after his convo with catelyn makes it seem like he's hearing voices, or has schizophrenia or something, but the whole "voice" thing is sorta a rework of the whole angel/devil on the soldier thing. a way to illustrate jon's internal conflict.  
\- sansa witnessing jon's treatment first hand causes a sort of internal conflict of her own. not enough of one to do anything about it, but enough to make her think more critically/question what she's being taught.  
\- the reason sansa 'helps' jeyne with jon in cat's solar relates to the conversation jon hear's the end of, just before the girls get bucketed. jeyne is nine years old, and foolishly dreams of marrying robb, and so asks sansa to help her to help robb fall in love with her or something, which sansa attempts to do. it is implied, but as i said, im not good at writing subtleties.  
\- the word bastard is never used, until jeyne brings it up, on purpose. his status and his relationship with catelyn is continuously referenced to, however. this is because it is always on jon's mind, even if he tries to ignore it, he never can. he's two years younger than the beginning of AGOT in this, and so he is less mature. he has a childish hope that if he ignores his status, while spending time with those who also ignore it, it will cease to become important, cease to matter. 
> 
> i hope no one thinks im attempting to insult their intelligence or something by adding these. i tried to be more nuanced this chapter than the previous two, as i am trying to establish jon's current mindset, and how he feels in winterfell now, as he will obviously be leaving soon. im worried that a lot of my attempts to be *subtle* fall flat, causing confusion instead of understandable 'wink wink, nudge nudge' moments. idk. let me know what you think. ill adjust the subtlety level accordingly.
> 
> Next up is Lorence I


	4. LORENCE I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorence arrives North, and meets everyone's favourite Northman. 
> 
> Jory Cassel.
> 
> (and everyone else in winterfell too.)

LORENCE I

“Gods, even their bloody castle is dour!”

Ser Lorence Roxton let out an amused sigh at his friend’s antics. _He’s not wrong though._ Even from the distance the Roxton retinue was from the castle, Winterfell could not be described as much else. _Father was always fond of the dour, however._ _It’s no wonder I am such a disappointment. _

Lorence prayed that the castle’s inside held a bit more life than it’s outside portrayed. Tall, grey walls. Tall, grey towers. _Even the bloody sky is grey._ That was another thing. The only time the sky was grey in the Reach, or Kings Landing for that matter, was during a storm. Or at least a light drizzle of rain. _But theirs is a different sort of precipitation. _

. . .

The snow had begun to fall half an hour after they had left Castle Cerwyn, that morning. 

Lord Medger Cerwyn’s son Cley had met them out on the kingsroad, the previous evening, offering his hospitality. Lorence had been hesitant. He’d claimed that he “hadn’t wanted to intrude”, but this had been waved off by young Cerwyn, seeing as they were _offering_ and all. Before Lorence could voice his actual reasons for his hesitancy, Humfrey had cut him off. 

“We would be most grateful for your hospitality this night, Lord Cerwyn.”

Lorence had shot him an exasperated glare, but Humfrey simply rolled his eyes. The Cerwyn boy couldn’t have seen more than ten years, and was treating this simple offer of hospitality very seriously, and so Lorence put up no further fight. He acquiesced with a simple nod of his head, noting with amusement the victorious look the young boy wore before putting a serious face on once more. _Even their children aspire to be dour lords. Gods, what a place. _

While following the Cerwyn boy back to their castle, Lorence had fallen in beside Humfrey, out of earshot of the troop of Northerners. 

“Do you have a particular enmity towards comfort, Roxton?” Humfrey spoke lowly.

“We’re so different from them, Humf.” Lorence answered just as quietly. “I swear they’re offended by every breath we take. They want to house us no more than I want to be housed by them.”

“You’d rather sleep on the frozen ground amongst people who _like_ you, supping on fucking squirrel, or rabbit, or whatever else grows in this frozen wasteland,” Humfrey droned on, “than be feasted _indoors_, sleep on a featherbed, maybe even find a _proper northern wench_ to warm you! Gods know warmth should be welcomed any way you can find it in this bloody place, even if those providing it aren’t necessarily _thrilled_.”

“_Proper northern wench?_” Lorence chuckled, imitating the accent Humfrey used when dropping _that_ particular line. “Your northern accent is awful. They hate us enough as it is, no need to antagonize them further.”

“Just be glad I didn’t bring my _ever delightful_ squire.”

Lorence barked a laugh. “Were Rick here, they’d have killed us before we’d even gotten to our rooms.” Humfrey let out a chuckle in agreement.

“Besides,” Lorence said with a smirk, “I heard northern women are so hairy, it’s like having extra furs while you sleep. They’ll give you bloody heatstroke.”

Humfrey laughed at that, before turning to Warron Tallflowers, one of their father’s guards, to begin arguing about _how bad heatstroke could possibly be._ It was moments like these when Lorence remembered why he had asked Humfrey to accompany him. His father had been against it, but ultimately left it to Lorence to decide. “We both know he shouldn’t, and we both know why.” he’d said, but Lorence had asked anyway. _I haven’t heard him say “fuck the North” in, like, 3 moons. He’ll be fine._

He wasn’t fine. Once Lorence had asked, Humfrey’s normally perpetually smirking face had turned into a very rare scowl. Lorence had tried to rescind his offer, but Humfrey put up a hand to stop him.

“It’s alright, Lorence.” He’d said, more sullen than Lorence heard him in two years. “As long as there aren’t any of those fucking bears there, I can be cordial. It’s not like I have another sister for them to kidnap, after all.”

It seemed to be the truth. Humfrey had been pleasant to all the Northmen they had met so far, including the young Cerwyn boy. The party rode through the gates, where they were greeted by a stocky man, whose soft spoken voice greatly differed from his grizzly appearance. _This must be Lord Medger Cerwyn._

“I welcome you within my walls, my lords and sers.” Lord Cerwyn proclaimed, offering the customary plate of bread and salt. “We shall feast you in an hour’s time. You’ve already met my son and heir Cley, and so I now present my maiden daughter Jonelle—” _Seven hells, she’s near thirty. _“—and my wife Ildrid.” Lorence gave all the necessary courtesy to the two ladies, noting with amusement the faint blush on Jonelle’s face when he kissed her hand. _What a lovely, _young_,_ _lady._

“I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Cerwyn.” Lorence said, clearly and kindly, _just as father taught me._ “I present my few companions: Ser Humfrey Hightower, my father’s ward and former squire, victor of the Tourney at Cider Hall, and Warron Tallflowers, son of the captain of the guards at Bandallon, the leader of the small troop of guards. As for myself, I am Ser Lorence Roxton. We are honoured to make your acquaintance, my lord.”

Lord Cerwyn gave him a weird look, bordering on confusion and amusement, before nodding his head, and setting his household to work. _Perhaps they don’t list accomplishments during introductions up North? _That thought brought a small smile to Lorence’s face. _Maybe it’s not so bad here. _

. . .

Lorence got the impression that Lord Cerwyn was attempting to throw a southern feast, not a northern one. 

Lorence remembered the northmen from the victory feast at the siege of Pyke. He had been trying to get his father some ale to go along with whatever food he could round up. Ser Arys had denied him quickly and firmly, though not without a smile. He then made his way over to Humfrey, who was talking with his brother Baelor. Baelor denied him with much more amusement, calling him a troublemaker. Humfrey had then made a comment about how Lorence’s father spent much time with Lord Stark, and how maybe he could try him. 

Lorence had turned to the tables occupied by the northmen, looking for a _Lord Stark._ They were the noisiest table, bar none, with men so tall and wide they looked like they were kin to the giants from the songs. The banner by their table even featured a giant, with a broken chain between its wrists. He remembered being terrified of the massive, boisterous men, until Humfrey kindly pointed out that Lord Stark would be at the high table, at the right hand of the King. _Oh, so instead of any random massive loud man, I now need to approach a massive loud man who also happens to be the bloody king._ It had all turned out alright in the end, as Lord Stark had smiled at him kindly, and offered to bring his father the ale himself.

As Lorence sat at the high table, at the right hand of Lord Cerwyn, he noticed the squires and men-at-arms seated below seemed restless. _Almost as if they were told to control their behaviour._ The thought brought a smirk to Lorence’s face. He meant to turn to Lord Cerwyn, and quietly inform him that he was quite looking forward to a rowdy, northern feast, but Lord Cerwyn beat him to the punch.

“I hear you’re to take young Jon Snow as a squire, ser?”

_I was in a good mood, prick._

Voicing his thoughts would lead nowhere good, and so he responded cordially. 

“Quite right, my lord.” Lorence said, voice even. “Lord Stark and my father are old friends. Lord Stark even saved his life during the Greyjoy Rebellion.”

“Is that right?” Lord Cerwyn said, seemingly genuine surprise on his face. “I had thought Ned hated the south.”

Lorence fought the urge to scowl at the bitter tone that had overtaken Lord Cerwyn’s voice. _Honest to a fault, these Northerners are, it seems._ “Is Lord Stark not the best of friends to his grace the King?” Lorence let the smallest amount of anger leak into his tone, enough to hopefully allow Lord Cerwyn to feel admonished.

It worked. The lord dipped his head, a small flush coming to his cheeks. _It would not do to foster a poor relationship with these men._ Lorence smiled, patting Lord Cerwyn on his shoulder. 

“I remember the two from the victory feast after the Greyjoy Rebellion.” Lorence said, all anger gone from his voice, tone turned jovial. “The northmen were loud and boisterous, and rather seemed like they were enjoying themselves. I must say, this was not what I was expecting.”

That put a smile on Lord Cerwyn’s face. “We weren’t sure how you would perceive us should we celebrate as usual.” Lord Cerwyn answered honestly. Lorence laughed.

“I had hoped to drink some Northmen under the table tonight, my lord.” Humfrey chimed in, a large smirk on his face.

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, ser!”

_Only one way to find out._

. . .

As it turns out, northern blood was half ale. At least, if Humfrey’s passed out form, and the seemingly unaffected, thickset, long-bearded northmen standing over him, still downing ale, was anything to go by. Lorence quietly asked Warron to see that he gets to bed, laughter threatening to overtake both of their voices. Lord Cerwyn seemed rather proud of his man, cheering him on the entire time, while his wife shook her head exasperatedly. Dancing followed soon after, with the southern songs Lorence was used to being played in between faster, more upbeat northern songs that were foreign to him. _A good excuse as any to sit during dancing._ Lady Jonelle never let him sit long, however. _Perhaps dance with a man your own age, my lady? I doubt the maester has a partner._

During one of the breaks, Lorence found himself chatting with young Cley Cerwyn. The ten year old boy seemed shy, but once he loosened up seemed like good enough company. Cley had laughed loudly at one of Lorence’s particularly clever japes, _if I don’t say so myself,_ and Lorence was struck by how much Cley reminded him of his brother. Not in looks. Cley Cerwyn’s dark eyes and hair were in sharp contrast to Luthor’s Osgrey features. The smiles, the laughter, however, brought his thoughts all back to his brother. The bitterness that usually accompanied those thoughts was ever present.

His sweet, kind, constantly smiling younger brother would miss so much in his life. And none of it was his fault. He was simply born different, and his punishment for such a crime was to be denied near all that he deserved. Lorence had been ten the first time he heard someone call Luthor “Rotten.” Ten. And Lorence nearly killed the serving boy where he stood. _How could anyone say such awful things about someone so kind? So happy? So innocent?_

“Ser?”

Lorence blinked, shaken out of his thoughts by Cley’s voice. “My apologies, I was miles away.” Lorence said. “What was that?”

“I asked why you were taking Jon Snow as your squire?”

It was as if Lorence’s thoughts of his brother, and all that he would be denied, had summoned the topic of _Jon Snow_ back to him.

“My father wills it.” Lorence said, careful not to let his scorn seep through. “Lord Stark and my father were good friends, so he tells me.”

“You’ve met young Jon, yes?” Lorence asked, after a beat. At Cley’s nod, he continued. “What’s he like?”

“Shy.” Cley responded immediately. “A bit sullen, I suppose. He opens up a lot more when we spar, it’s one of the few times I see him smile.” A thoughtful look came about Cley’s face.

“It’s odd that he doesn’t spar more often with us when we visit, if he likes it so much. And he’s damn good too.” Cley said.

“Us?”

“Robb Stark, his brother, and Theon Greyjoy, Lord Stark’s ward.”

It had only just sunk in that Lord Stark’s bastard grew up _alongside _his trueborn children. He had not quite believed it until speaking to some northerners. Lorence had expected his father to share his confusion, and while his father’s words agreed with his son’s, his tone spoke as if he knew more than he let on. Lord Stark was becoming something of an enigma to Lorence. _The man had his bastard grow up alongside his trueborn children, same education and all, and yet his wife allowed him into her bed enough to whelp _five _damn children. _That brought another thought to Lorence’s head. _The Lady Stark has to see the physical reminder of her husbands dalliance every day, and yet she seems quite pleased to join her husband in bed. Perhaps these northmen do not exaggerate when they boast of their manhood. _Another thought came to his mind. _I wonder who became the object of her scorn, if not her husband?_

“How often was the Lady Stark amongst the audience of your spars, Cley?”

Cley gave him a confused look, clearly wondering how this was related. _Once his balls drop, he’ll get it._ “Most times, I think.” The boy said. _Ah. So Lady Stark doesn’t wish the realm to know that her husband’s bastard is better than her own children. Petty, if not effective. _

His father’s words came back to him then, as they did in most situations.

“I know this isn’t what you wanted, son.” Lord Roxton had said. “But don’t take it out on the boy. By all accounts, he is a good lad, and will make a good squire.”

_A good lad._ Most lads are _good lads_ to someone. And _all_ lads weren’t Luthor. Lorence had tried to convince his father, tried _so hard_. Luthor practically worshipped Lorence, and would be eager to comply with any of the typical squire’s tasks. He had Roxton and Osgrey blood, and so, if trained, would make a fine swordsman, mental capacity be damned. The natural instincts would all be there. He’d make the perfect squire. And, if Luthor earned his spurs, nobody would call him Luthor _Rotten_ again. And if they did, Luthor could quiet that talk himself.

His father had given him a disappointed look, then. _That was nothing new._ It seemed those disappointed eyes, so much like his own, followed him everywhere he went, and in everything he did. It felt like he could hear reprimands before they came, sometimes. And even if his words held no chastisement, his eyes did. Always. “They are nice dreams, Lorence.” His father had said. “But they are the dreams of a child. You are nine-and-ten. You’re old enough, and smart enough to know how unrealistic that is.”

He was right. Lorence knew his father was right. That didn’t make it any easier. Instead of helping his brother prove the realm wrong about him, he would be training some northern lord’s bye-blow. It felt like a sick joke. Even a bastard, from a land where they don’t even _believe_ in knighthood, would say the words and feel the steel before Luthor, a _trueborn _son of one of the Reach’s most respected houses. _The gods have the most cruel sense of humour._

“Are you alright, ser?”

He was once again pulled out of his trance by Cley’s questioning, and slightly concerned voice. _He must think me mad._ Lorence put on a small smile. “Forgive me Cley, I fear I am exhausted.” He said. “I must retire for the night.” He took his leave of the young lord, making sure to thank the boy’s mother and father for their _splendid_ feast. He made his way from the great hall, through the meagre guest house. He poked his head in to Humfrey’s chambers. _I pray he at least made it into bed._ His friend was lying on top of the furs, still dressed in his full finery, snoring _loudly._

_If only the Fowler wench could see him now. Jen? Jeyne? Jennelyn? Jeynelyn??? Whatever. I could never tell them apart anyway. If you have twins at least give them names that don’t sound the bloody same._

He found his bed, and allowed thoughts of the confusing Dornish twins to carry him to sleep.

. . .

Their party was met an hour out by a few men with the direwolf of Stark emblazoned upon their surcoat, the leader a young man, maybe a few years older than Lorence. He gave Lorence and Humfrey a quick size up, a wry smile appearing on his face. 

“Sers.” The man greeted. “Lord Stark has bid me escort your retinue to Winterfell. My name is Jory Cassel. You lot look like you need to warm up, aye?”

Lorence couldn’t help but laugh, before giving an involuntary shiver. “I couldn’t agree more, ser. Lead the way.” They were in thin furs, not _nearly_ warm enough to keep out the cold. Nor the snow. _It’s summer, for fuck’s sake. _The northmen began to lead them towards the castle.

“I’m no ser, I’m afraid.” The leader, Jory, said conversationally. “Very few in the north believe in knighthood.”

_Trust me. I’m aware._

“Really?” Lorence said, feigning ignorance. “I’d met a Ser Rodrik at Pyke. He helped my injured father away from the siege. He was the first northman I’d ever seen.” Lorence rubbed the sides of his face. “He had these great whiskers on the side of his face. I thought all northmen looked like that, but I’ve seen a disappointing lack of whiskered faces up here.”

“You met my uncle then!” Jory said with a chuckle. “Ser Rodrik Cassel. Winterfell’s master-at-arms. He was knighted in battle during the War of the Ninepenny Kings.” Jory then gave him an appraising look. “You were at Pyke? I was barely old enough.”

“I was squire to Ser Arys Oakheart.” Lorence answered with pride.

“Of the Kingsguard?” 

“Not at the time.” Lorence answered with a smile. “He was sworn in six moons after Pyke.”

Jory regarded him with a new sort of respect. The kind of respect that comes with being knighted by a member of the prestigious Kingsguard. _I’m used to it, by now. Even if I don’t deserve it._

“There was a northman knighted at Pyke. By the King himself, I believe. What was his name?” Jory said, blissfully ignorant of the shift of mood that took place within Lorence, as well as the unusually quiet Humfrey. Jory’s look darkened. “Jorah Mormont. A traitor and a coward. Even us proud northmen have some bad eggs.”

“We’re well aware of who Jorah Mormont is.” Humfrey said quietly, cold fury evident in his voice. Jory seemed taken back by his tone. _Seven hells._

“Pardon my friend, Jory.” Lorence said quickly. “This is Ser Humfrey Hightower. Lady Lynesse is his older sister.” Jory’s eyes widened almost comically in shock. He immediately began to apologize to Humfrey. He cut off Jory’s apologies with a curt _s’alright_, and they rode the rest of the way in mostly silence. _Off to a fantastic start._

_. . ._

The Roxton retinue entered through the Winterfell gates, the entire Stark family seemingly ready for their arrival. _I wonder which one is my new charge?_ He dismounted, and handed his reigns off to a stableboy, with a silver stag and a smile. The boy accepted the coin with wide eyes and an excited “Thank you, milord!” _Don’t spend it all in one go, lad._

Lorence approached the tallest Stark. _Not exactly an accomplishment._ Lord Eddard Stark hadn’t changed at all. Still the same stern face, and kind eyes he remembered from Pyke. The only visible change was that he seemed to have shrunk to half a head shorter than Lorence. _Dour as ever, though. _

“Lord Stark.” Lorence greeted with his most winning smile. “On behalf of myself, and my companions, we thank you for your hospitality.” He offered a bow, receiving one in return from the Warden of the North. 

“You are most welcome, Ser Lorence.” Lord Stark said, a small smile on his face. “You and your companions are welcome in our castle for as long as you wish.” Lorence responded with a nod, and moved on to the Lady of the castle, newborn babe in arm. _Gods, highborn introductions are arduous._

“Lady Stark.” He greeted with a kiss on her hand and a smirk. “It gladdens me to see another frilly southerner within these walls.” Lady Stark gave a tight lipped smile at his jest. _No sense of humour? Tully to the bone, I see. Lady Lysa would’ve called me an insolent brat. It’s an improvement, I suppose._

“Welcome to our home, ser.” Lady Stark said, her fake cheerful tone clearly only discernible to Lorence, the only southerner near enough to hear, or know better. _She doesn’t like me._ “Ned has naught but good to say of your family. We are pleased to make your acquaintance.” Lorence gave her a convincing smile in thanks.

“And who’s this?” He asked, to the babe.

“Rickon Stark,” Lady Stark said, the fondness in her voice no longer feigned. “Our fifth born.”

“A beautiful babe, my lady, my lord.” Lorence said. _Buttering them right up, aren’t I? _“Congratulations.”

“Thank you, ser.” Lord Stark said. “May I present the rest of my children?” He walked around his wife to rest his hands on his eldest son’s shoulders. _Hopefully this one isn’t as Tully as he looks_. “My son and heir, Robb.” Robb Stark gave him a smile, and a bow.

“Well met, Robb.”

“You as well, ser.”

Lorence smiled at him, before moving on to the young lady next in the line. Her eyes had been shooting back and forth between him, and Humfrey behind him, glowing with undisguised awe the entire time, clearly thinking them straight out of the songs all young ladies enjoy. “My daughter, Sansa.”

“A pleasure, my lady.” Lorence greeted with a smile kiss to her hand, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at the not-so-faint blush on the young girl’s face. The younger sister had no such qualms, rolling her eyes and huffing a not-so-subtle sigh at her older sister’s display. Lorence also thought he heard a small mutter of “stupid”, but it could just have been the wind. _Even the wind has more personality than the people here._

“Y-You as well, ser.” The pretty auburn-haired girl whose name he had forgotten already stammered out. Lorence barely managed to contain his smirk, before continuing on to the younger daughter.

“Arya, my other daught—”

“Are you a knight?! Like, a real one?!” The young girl interrupted demandingly.

Lorence could not contain the laugh that bubbled from his lips. The girl didn’t even seem phased at the sharp hiss of _Arya!_ that came from her mother, eyes impatiently imploring him to answer her question.

“I am, my lady.” Lorence said, still chuckling. _A real knight? Depends on who you ask, I suppose._

“Wow…” The two youngest standing Starks said, eyes wide.

“And your name is, little lord?” Lorence said to the youngest standing Stark, still smiling, but wanting this whole thing to be over. _It’s bloody cold. My face is going to stay frozen in this fake smile forever. _

“Bran.” The boy said shyly, after a nudge from his youngest sister.

“Well met, Bran.” Lorence said, with faint amusement at the little lord’s shyness. Lord Stark motioned for two boys of different ages who were stood behind the family, a small, exasperated smile on his face at his children’s antics.

“My ward, Theon Greyjoy—” Lord Stark said with a pat on the shoulder of a preening boy of around five-and-ten. _Ah. The hostage. _Greyjoy was giving him a death glare. _My father killed his brother. Not too surprising I suppose. _Still, Lorence greeted the lad cordially. “—and my baseborn son, Jon Snow.” Lord Stark finished, the difference in fondness for the two boys laughably obvious. _Lord Stark would not do well in the south, methinks._

Lorence stepped back a bit to get a good look at the bastard of the hour. _My new responsibility. _Jon Snow was a boy of two-and-ten, with his father’s dark hair and dark eyes. He was taller and leaner than his trueborn brother of the same age, however. _Didn’t get that from his father. _He had odd look on his face, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to feel. The look seemed to quickly morph back and forth from shyness, to excitement, to a defiant glare. _Perhaps he feels as conflicted as I do._ Lorence shook the boy’s hand, receiving a strong grip back. _He wants to impress me, it appears. _

“Well met, Jon Snow.” Lorence said, a smile on his face, not as forced as he had expected. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you, lad.” It was the right thing to say. The expected thing. _What propriety demands. _However, the surprise, and subsequent happiness clear in young Snow’s eyes at the comment melted away much of Lorence’s scorn. _I’m here for _him, _and he’s introduced last, even after a hostage. That would rankle even the humblest of men. Likely, he thinks I hate him. I don’t. I just hate what he represents. _

“You as well, ser.” Snow said shyly. Lorence’s smile widened, and he gave the young boy a pat on the shoulder, before turning around. _The Cerwyns seemed amused at our showy and braggadocios introductions. Let’s dampen our southern flair just a bit._

“Might I introduce the freezing fools who have joined me?” Lorence said, walking back to his companions. “This—” Lorence slapped his hand just a _little_ too hard on Humfrey’s back “—is Ser Humfrey Hightower, Lord Leyton Hightower’s youngest son.” Humfrey gave him a small glare. Whether at his shortened introduction, compared to Castle Cerwyn, or the slap to the back, Lorence wasn’t sure. 

“And this—” Lorence placed a hand on Warron’s shoulder, _much_ softer than he had Humfrey. “—is Warron Tallflowers, the leader of our small troop of guards.” The two acknowledged their hosts, before the guests were whisked away by Robb Stark and Jon Snow to their rooms. 

Once out of earshot of the Lord and Lady Stark, Humfrey smacked Lorence upside the head, much to the amusement of the young brothers. 

“What was that for?” Lorence said petulantly.

“I’d ask you the same!” Humfrey whined back, just as petulantly. “You know how bloody cold it is, and you’re smacking me on the back like that? It still stings, and it’s been minutes!”

Robb Stark was full on cackling at this point, causing the two knights to snap out of their childish display to join in on the laughter. Even the supposedly sullen Jon Snow had a smile on his face. “I’d thought it was because I hadn’t announced your _only_ tourney victory like I had at Cerwyn.” Lorence said, laughter barely dying down.

“That too.” Humfrey grumbled good-naturedly. “How are these northerners supposed to know how much better I am than you, if you don’t announce my accomplishments?”

“You won a tourney?” Robb Stark interrupted excitedly.

“I sure did—”

“He takes far more credit than he deserves.” Lorence cut in. “Ser Garlan was busy _wooing_ his betrothed, Ser Tanton was playing chaperone, and your brother Baelor was—”

“Indisposed!”

“—sitting out to let his baby brother win.” Lorence finished. Humfrey huffed, but did not deny it.

“Still one more win than you, though.” Humfrey said with a smirk. Lorence bit back his retort, something along the lines of “On _far_ more attempts!”, once he remembered that they had company. Stark and Snow wore bewildered looks on their faces, while Warron and the rest of the guards looked _completely_ unsurprised. _No shock there._

“What?” Humfrey said to the boys. “Don’t have to be honourable, chivalrous, perfect knights all the time, do we?” The boys both cracked a smile at that. _Humf seems to have forgotten his dislike of northerners. For now, at least._

Their rooms in the guest keep were quite grand. Featherbeds, hearths, _thanks the gods, _and even a solar that would see little to no use. The boys actually seemed quite nervous, as if the pampered southerners wouldn’t find the rooms satisfactory. _Rickard would scoff and belittle them, true enough. Gods, what a shit._

Turning his thoughts away from Humfrey’s cunt of a squire, Lorence stopped _his_ new squire before he could take his leave. The boy sat on a chair near the now blazing hearth that Lorence was practically lying on top of. _How could it possibly be so damn cold in summer?_

“I just wanted to speak with you for a bit, lad.” Lorence said. Snow’s eyes lit up, giving Lorence a near reverent look, as if Lorence was a knight straight out of the stories. A look that reminded him _far _too much of Luthor. The familiar bitterness arose unbidden, washing over him like ice cold water. Lorence met Snow’s eyes, not managing to conceal the bitterness from his gaze, it seemed. 

Because Snow’s smile dissipated slowly, expression now becoming guarded. _Fuck._ “I just, um, wanted to ensure you knew all that being a squire entailed.” Lorence said, voice back to normal, but not looking Snow in the eye. _I got his hopes up, only to disappoint him. I’m not even surprised, honestly. Disappointing people is one of my greatest talents._

“I’ve looked into it, ser.” Snow responded flatly, voice emotionless.

“Well let’s just refresh then, hmm?” Lorence said, trying to inject some fake cheerfulness into his voice. Judging by Snow’s lack of change in expression, he failed quite miserably. “You’ll tend my horse, make sure he is fed, cleaned, and saddled whenever required. You’ll clean and scour my armour, and help me into it whenever required. Should I compete in a tourney, you’ll be at the ready with a new lance, or a sword, should it be required. Alright?” The boy nodded, face still completely blank.

“And in return, I shall teach you all that I know.” Lorence said with a smile. This one wasn’t forced. _I’ve always wanted a protégé. _“You shall learn jousting, weaponry, and knightly etiquette from one of the best knights in the realm, self-proclaimed, of course.” Another jape that fell flat. 

“Knightly etiquette?” The boy said, a small amount of confused surprise being the first emotion Lorence had seen from Snow since the conversation started.

“That’s right.” Lorence said, voice turning serious. “A knight vows to protect the innocent, protect women, to behave honourably. Too many knights say the words, and do not mean them. When you feel my sword touch your shoulders, I want you to not only understand the gravity of the vows you swear, but to be more than able to fulfill them. Do you understand?” Lorence swore he saw a small bit of excitement come back into the boys eyes, even if for a moment, before it faded. _I said _when_, not _if_. And I mean it too._

“Even bastard knights?”

_I was right. He thinks I dislike him because he’s a bastard. As if _I_, of all people, would blame a child for the circumstances of the birth, given who my brother is. Of course, I’ve given him no reason to think any different._

“Whether your mother was a whore or the bloody Queen, the vow is the same, Snow.” Lorence said, using a mirthful mocking voice, hoping to dissolve some of the tension with a jest. Judging by how Snow’s eyes hardened, he hadn’t appreciated the jest. At all. _You’re really bad at this, aren’t you, Roxton?_

“I suppose.” The boy gritted out. “May I take my leave, ser? You seem tired from your journey, and the feast is in a few hours.”

Lorence sighed internally. _This may be difficult._ “Yes, of course.” Lorence said, dejected. “Your duties start the day we leave.” _Giving him yet another sign you don’t like him. Seven hells, Roxton. Get it together._

“Oh, Snow?”

The boy turned around, face guarded _again._ “Would you rather I call you Jon? Or keep using Snow? I’d heard Lord Robb call you Snow. I’d assume it’s what you went by” Jon Snow gave him a long look. _It’s an olive branch, lad. Please._

“Jon, ser. Jon’s fine.” 

. . .

Lorence took an hour to properly thaw out. His brain became fully unfrozen after only a quarter hour, and so he took the remaining time to think. _Not my strong suit._

He’d jumped to conclusions about Jon Snow. Obviously. He’d resented the boy from afar, detesting him for reasons that not only were unrealistic and childish, but had literally nothing to do with the boy. He’d even stooped so low as to allow Jon’s status to become a reason for his dislike. _Resenting a boy for his circumstances of birth. Not only are you a raging hypocrite, but father raised you better than this._

However, in a rare moment free of self-loathing, he’d realized that Jon Snow was not completely innocent in the frosty beginning to their relationship. The boy hadn’t said it outright, but it was clear that he had assumed the reason for Lorence’s _incredibly _brief bout of bitterness immediately. He’d completely shut himself off from the conversation, giving short answers with monotone inflections. Lorence’s attempts to steer what should have been a happy conversation back on track had been swiftly rejected by the young squire. _He’s made his mind up about me. That won’t do._

No matter who was at fault for the disastrous conversation, this would not do. The boy was only two-and-ten, and would likely not earn a knighthood for another four or five years. Four or five years of clipped tones and sullen frowns was not an ideal knight-squire relationship.

The seven years Lorence spent under the tutelage of Ser Arys Oakheart were the best of his life. From beginning as a squire at the age of ten, to being knighted at seven-and-ten. Lorence and Ser Arys had hit it off immediately, and Lorence quickly grew to see his knight as the older brother he never had. Lorence could go to Ser Arys with anything. Whether he wished to speak of combat, women, or just life in general, Ser Arys always had an answer, and always had a fond smile on his face while doing so. Even after Ser Arys donned the white cloak, and traded Old Oak for The Red Keep, he always had time for Lorence. There was no man Lorence admired more, apart from his father.

That was the kind of relationship Lorence wanted with his squire. If it wasn’t going to be Luthor, then so be it. That last little bit of childish hope had died during the journey to Winterfell. Luthor would always have a place at Bandallon, but he would never be a knight. He may not even learn to read and write properly. _It’s not particularly fair, but neither is life for putting Luthor in this situation. _Lorence had his squire. And Lorence was going to turn Jon Snow into the best knight the North has ever seen. The boy might even learn to laugh along the way. _I’m not sure which task will be more daunting._

. . .

The Winterfell great hall was near four times larger than the Cerwyn one. _It’s to be expected, I suppose._ Lorence sat in the place of honour at Lord Stark’s right hand side, Humf next to him. The rest of the _trueborn_ Stark’s filled out the rest of the high table. When Lorence inquired as to the presence of his squire, Lady Stark _politely_ informed him that she did not deem it proper to seat a bastard at the high table. _Leave it to the southern woman to get all prickly about status. _Lorence scanned the hall, catching sight of a head of raven curls seated below the salt, clearly half-listening to the story the Greyjoy hostage was regaling his table with. _Hopefully I’m not about to embarrass the boy too much._

“I’m about to make a toast, Humf.” Lorence spoke lowly to his friend. “Scale of one to ten, how grandiose do I make it?”

“I’d say a seven, or eight.” Humfrey answered with a cheeky smile. “We’ve got on rather well with these people. Can’t have the Northerners liking us _too_ much.” Lorence smirked.

“Exactly what I was thinking.” 

Lorence turned to the lord of the castle.

“Lord Stark?” Lorence said. “I was wondering if I might make a toast.” 

Lord Stark looked as if that was the _last _thing he wanted to happen, which Lorence noted with no small amount of amusement. “I suppose, ser.” He granted reluctantly. _Oh, Jon. You have no idea what’s about to happen._

Lord Stark stood, chair scraping against the raised platform. The hall quieted instantly. _I’ve only seen father given this much respect._ “Guests and residents of Winterfell! I hope you’re all enjoying the feast.” A small cheer traversed through the crowd. “Our guest of honour, Ser Lorence Roxton, wishes to propose a toast. If you would, ser?” Lorence gave Lord Stark a thankful nod, before standing, and walking around the high table to stand front and centre, goblet in hand. Every eye in the hall was on him. _Here goes._

“Lords, ladies, squires, servants, residents of Winterfell! I would like to thank Lord Stark, his family, and all of you for your incredible hospitality. I speak for myself, and my retinue of southern strangers, when I say that we have never felt more welcome in a castle.” _A lie, but Humf said to go grandiose, sooo…_

“I would also like to thank Lord Stark, for the opportunity and privilege, that is allowing me to take Jon Snow as my squire.” All eyes turned to Jon, whose normally pale face was turning a rapidly deepening pink at the attention. “Lord Stark saved my father’s life, during the Greyjoy Rebellion. An ironborn man sought to pay the iron price for my house’s ancestral Valyrian steel sword, while my father was lying injured near a fallen castle wall. Lord Stark came to his rescue, slaying the man, and had Ser Rodrik Cassel help my father to safety. And even after all that, Lord Stark personally delivered my father a flagon of ale while he was recovering in his sickbed. Being able to train Lord Stark’s son to one day become a knight of the realm is my honour, privilege, and absolute pleasure. He shall leave these great walls a squire, and return a knight of House Stark!” A small cheer erupted through the great hall. Lorence locked eyes with Jon Snow. _I mean it lad. I mean every word. Except the first bit, but that wasn’t about you. Had to butter up the crowd first._

Lorence raised his goblet.

“To Jon Snow, a future knight of the Seven Kingdoms!”

“Jon Snow!” The crowd roared back, before erupting into cheers. _Father always said I was good at public speaking._ Jon was receiving pats on the back from the guardsmen he was seated with, a small embarrassed smile adorning his normally sullen face. The only two people in a poor mood in the hall after the toast were the Lady Stark and the hostage Greyjoy. _Subject matter for Greyjoy, subject of the toast for Lady Stark. Even singers don’t please everyone._

Lorence and Jon locked eyes again. The boy’s smile widened.

_Maybe this won’t be so bad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our first look into the head of Lorence! 
> 
> Yeah, so it's been a minute. My bad. I wrote and rewrote this chapter like 3 times. Sorry it took so long 😬
> 
> Jon II coming next week? Maybe? Hopefully? Who knows.


	5. JON II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few hellos. A few more goodbyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably could've been two chapters, but I really liked the way it came together in the end as one.  
Jon almost has an entire character arc in this chapter.

JON II

_My honour, privilege, and absolute pleasure._

_A knight of House Stark._

_A future knight of the Seven Kingdoms!_

If Jon’s previous conversation with Ser Lorence was any indicator, these words were more of the flowery falsities of all southern knights that his father had warned him of. 

_And yet…_

_. . ._

It was said that bastards grow up faster than normal children. Jon had been six when he’d asked Maester Luwin if this was true. Luwin had only thoughtfully replied, “I suppose, in a sense.” At the time, Jon hadn’t understood what the old maester had meant. He had a better idea now.

_Bastards see the truths and evils of the world before anyone else, because no one cares enough to hide it from them. _

And so, when Jon had seen the bitter, albeit brief, glare that Ser Lorence shot him when they had sat down to talk, he’d known exactly what that had meant. He had seen that looks countless times, be it from Lady Stark, her southern servants, the septa, whomever. He was used to it. _Father was right. He hates me._It had hurt far more than Jon had intended, or expected. He should’ve expected it. Lord Stark had warned him, after all. And it wasn’t like people hadn’t been belittling him for his status for his entire life. _So why did it hurt so much coming from Ser Lorence?_

His father had warned him of the falsities southerners rely on. Fake smiles, fake laughs, fake words. “Lying comes as easy to them as breathing,” his father had said. But Jon hadn’t quite anticipated the performing talent of his soon-to-be knight. 

Ser Lorence had greeted the Stark family warmly, even if he had seemed a little put off by both Lady Stark and Theon, though Jon thought that he was the only one to notice how frosty the former was. _Theon has a reason, at the very least. I’m _finally _leaving. You’d think she’d be thanking the knight on her bloody knees. _When Jon had been introduced, Ser Lorence had been pleasant. Excited even, it had seemed. That small bit of hope that Jon had been doing his damnedest to control and dampen had begun to bloom again.

The bickering between Ser Lorence and his friend Ser Humfrey had endeared Jon even more to his knight. _It’s just like Robb and I. _Robb and Jon had showed them to the guest house, and they had been, once again, pleasantly surprised at the lack of complaint given, spoken or otherwise, by _any_ of the southern guests. _Had father been wrong? Perhaps he had just had a bad experience? _

Jon had then learned very quickly to _never_ doubt his father.

The remainder of their conversation had been terribly awkward. Ser Lorence had clearly noticed the tension that had descended upon them, and had tried to dissipate it. A well faked excitement coated his voice, as if Jon hadn’t noticed the bitter glare Ser Lorence had sent his way in the beginning. As if it had never happened. _Lying comes as easy to them as breathing._

Jon had begun to loosen up a bit towards the end of the conversation. Ser Lorence had seemed so honest, and so passionate when speaking of knightly etiquette. What differs a false knight from a true one. He had even said, “_when_ you feel my sword touch your shoulders.” _When._ Not _if._

_Perhaps he’s trying to make the best of an unwanted situation?_

And so Jon had asked him. Jon had thrown his status in Ser Lorence’s face. _Don’t hide behind your false words and cheerfulness. Say it. Say you don’t want me as your squire because I’m a bastard. We both know you’re thinking it. Be a man and say it._

“Whether your mother was a whore or the bloody Queen, the vow is the same, Snow.”

Jon had to take a deep breath to calm himself before he spoke again. Not a noticeable one. He didn’t want to give Ser Lorence the satisfaction of knowing he’d hurt him.

He’d said it. Not outright, however that might’ve been preferable to the mocking tone and smirk Ser Lorence had used. 

Jon’s thoughts flashed to an incident that had happened the week prior, while finishing up with Ser Rodrik in the training yard.

. . .

“Come on, Stark!” Theon’s voice rang out. “I’ll pay for you, even!”

“No, Theon.” Robb said sternly. “Go to your bloody brothel by yourself. My mother would have my head.”

“Come on!” Theon faux-whined, before his constant smirk widened as his eyes found Jon’s. “Afraid you’re going to run into Snow’s mother? I’ve had her. Don’t see the big deal really. There’s like four girls there who are—”

Theon didn’t get the chance to finish before Jon jumped him. Robb had obviously seen the rage increasing in Jon’s eyes, and had pulled him off before Jon had landed any _real _hits. _A_ _damn _s_hame_. Jon was spewing obscenities and threats from over Robb’s shoulder, Theon laughing all the while. 

Jon had then felt the relatively new, but increasingly familiar boldness that had overcome him during his _disagreement_ with Lady Stark that had occurred after the prank. _This must me the wolf’s blood father is so fond of speaking of_. Normally, he knew better than to give in to his baser instincts, but he had stopped thinking as soon as Theon had started talking. Jon was seeing red, and only wanted to hurt Theon as much as possible. _Bastard or not, I still have my pride. I will _not _be spoken to like that._

“Seeing as you’ve met my mother,” Jon spat, eyes glaring a million daggers. “You should climb to the top of the broken tower, and jump. Then you’d get to meet _your_ brothers. Been a while since you've seen them, yeah?.”

Theon stopped laughing immediately. The mirth evaporated from his eyes quicker than boiling water in the Red Waste, and suddenly Robb was now holding back Theon, the heir’s pleas for peace going unheard between Winterfell’s warring outsiders.

Ser Rodrik’s deep, booming voice had banished them to their rooms for the remainder of the day. Robb, as ever, attempted to placate his brother and friend. Once it was clear that was going nowhere, Robb pretended like it hadn’t happened. But Theon and Jon refused to speak to one another. 

. . .

Lorence’s words had the same mocking edge that Theon’s had had. Jon had gritted out a practiced response, wanting to flee from the situation. _Why did I ever agree to this?_ When Ser Lorence had stopped him on the way out, Jon had wanted to turn and snap at him. Something in Ser Lorence’s eyes had given him pause, however. _It can’t be. I’m imagining things, right?_

The look on Ser Lorence’s face had eerily resembled the one Robb wore whenever he went too far on a jape, or hit Jon too hard during sparring.

_Remorse._

_Probably not though, right? What business would some highborn knight, heir to his father’s lordship, have feeling remorse over insulting a bastard?_

Just in case, Jon had carefully schooled his features into a practiced blank expression, before turning back after a beat.

“Would you rather I call you Jon? Or keep using Snow? I’d heard Lord Robb call you Snow. I’d assumed it’s what you went by.”

Jon stared at his knight for a long moment. _He really means it, doesn’t he? _That small bloom of hope, which had nearly wilted in its entirety from Jon’s dark thoughts, found a fresh patch of sunlight. _It’s an overture. A resigned one perhaps, but an overture nonetheless._

“Jon, ser. Jon’s fine.”

. . .

“He didn’t embarrass you too badly, did he?”

Jon hardly noticed at the deep, barely familiar voice behind him, lacking the familiar brogue so common from his fellow northerners. He was too deep in thought. _Brooding, Robb calls it_. After Ser Lorence’s grand toast, Jon had fled the great hall at the earliest possible time, in accordance to _propriety _and all. He was not someone who was used to the attention of an entire castle on him. On the rare occasion that it was, it was never something like this. The entire hall had been cheering his name, and he had received many pats on the back from the surrounding guardsmen he was seated near. The many drunken congratulations became a bit much rather quickly, though. The air had started to feel stuffy, and being seated at the same table as a now drunk Theon would cause anyone to try to get as far away as possible, especially given their fight. And so, he found himself sitting on the steps leading to one of the great hall’s side doors, relishing in the cool, evening air.

Jon was beginning to change his opinion on Ser Lorence Roxton. Jon had been brave enough to meet Ser Lorence’s eyes twice during the toast. Once during, and once directly after. Lorence gave him an imploring look both times, as if to say, “I mean what I say. Please believe me.” 

“Lad?”

Jon started, turning back to see a plain, thickly muscled man towering over him, maybe six and a half feet tall if Jon had to guess, give him a questioning look.

“Pardon me, ser?”

“I’m not a ser, lad.” The big man said after a small chuckle. “Maybe one day. Who knows?”

“What shall I call you then?”

“Warron Tallflowers, lad.” Warron said with a small smile. “And you’re Jon Snow, yes?”

Jon nodded. Warron sat down next to him, the massive man and the slim boy surely making a hilarious image to any who would view from afar. 

“Sorry ‘bout Lorence.” Warron said with a small, fond smile. “He can be a bit much.”

“S’alright.” Jon said, fighting a small smile of his own. “I’m honoured, truly. It’s just…”

“A lot?” Warron offered. Jon nodded in agreement. 

“Lorence told me that you two got off to a rocky start.” Warron said, very matter-of-factly. “He said, and I quote, ‘I fucked up. Badly.’” Jon snorted at that, Warron chuckling along with him. _Southern eloquence is clearly all it’s made up to be. _“Said somethin’ about sayin’ all the wrong things. Insultin’ you by accident.”

Jon could only nod in response. _Where is he going with this?_

“He didn’t mean it, you know?” _Ah._

“And so his grand toast is a way of saying sorry?” Jon asked.

“In part, I suppose.” Warron said thoughtfully, before a small smirk came over his face. “I think he also wanted to piss off the Lady Stark by dedicatin’ an entire toast to you. He’s not exactly the biggest fan of House Tully. I’d imagine you two are of a mind there.” Jon laughed out loud at that. _True enough_. Warron chuckled along quietly, then fixed him with a serious look.

“Let me give you some advice, lad.” He said. “Lorence mentioned how you became all closed off and curt with him, misreadin’ a look he gave you by accident.” Jon wasn’t laughing now. 

“I know that look.” Jon glumly cut off the massive man. “I see it every day. From Lady Stark most of all.” Warron merely sighed in response.

“You misread it, lad.” Warron said kindly. “Lorence, of all bloody people, would not be someone to hold the circumstances of a man’s birth against him. Trust me on that.” Warron clearly saw Jon’s responding questioning look, but pointedly ignored it.

“My name is Tallflowers, yeah?” Warron said after a beat. Jon nodded. “Do you know the name they give bastards from the Reach?”

“Flowers.”

“Exactly.” Warron said. “My great-grandfather was a bastard. Name was Willem Flowers. He was the son of a lady of Bulwer and a knight of Crakehall, sired at some tourney somewhere, I never fuckin’ paid attention to the details. Anyway, The Lord Roxton at the time offered to foster him, when none of his blood would take him in. The Lord Roxton gave him food, education, and trainin’. When the Lord Bulwer called him back, Willem refused. He became a guard for Lord Roxton, protectin’ the family of the man who gave him everythin’. He became captain of the guards at Bandallon, and after finishin’ third in a melee at a tourney in Kings Landing, for some prince’s nameday or something, King Daeron II legitimized him. Willem took his own name, Tallflowers. Flowers, as a reminder of his heritage. And tall, because, well…”

“He was tall?” Jon offered. _Not exactly an impossibility, judging by his descendant._

“He’s the son of a Bulwer and a Crakehall, lad. You’d best believe he was bloody tall. Grandfather used to say he was near as all as Ser Duncan himself, though grandfather wasn’t the brightest of men, so I wouldn’t put too much stock in that.

“My point, though, is that I’m descended from a bastard. A bastard who had the opportunity to take a name, one he could call his own. And when he did, he made sure _Flowers_ was included. You’re a bastard, lad. You’ll always be a bastard. No matter what some King writes on a piece of parchment, that’s never going to change, and no one else will forget it, either. You have a choice. You can either wallow in self-pity, and lash out at any and everyone you think is callin’ attention to it. _Or_, you can decide not to give a fuck.”

Jon gave him a questioning look.

“You’re a bastard.” Warron said, _again_, “So what? Why does it matter?”

“It _doesn’t._” Jon said indignantly, before adding glumly, “It _shouldn’t._”

“Yes. It _shouldn’t_.” Warron agreed. “But to stupid people, it does. My point, is why should _you_ care what others feel about you? You ever heard the phrase _‘Words are wind’ _?”

Jon nodded.

“There’s never been a truer phrase uttered in history, I swear to all the gods.” Warron said. “Words literally are just wind comin’ out a man’s mouth. While that phrase usually comes across as ‘_prove to me with your actions rather than your words._’, or somethin’ like that, I prefer a different interpretation. Words are wind. They mean nothin’. They only _harm_ you, if you let them. And the more you let them, the deeper they cut. These people, who insult others for no bloody reason, have no right for anyone to give a shit ‘bout what they say. So don’t. Give a shit, I mean.”

“It’s not that easy.” Jon said solemnly.

“O’Course it is!” Warron countered, his deep voice raising for the first time the entire conversation. “Try it like this, hmm? Next time some pisspot laughs at you for bein’ a bastard. Ask yourself, ‘_Why should I care what they say?_’ You’ll find, the answer damn near every single bloody time, is ‘_You fuckin’ shouldn’t!_’ And once you realize that, lad, life will be a lot more enjoyable, I promise you.”

_Is it really that easy?_

“I know I’m ramblin’ and all.” Warron said. “I’m not all that good at talkin’. Sorry if it feels like this whole thing came out of nowhere. But I’ve been gettin’ taunts about my heritage my whole fuckin’ life. People even call my father _Captain Bastard_. To his face. He smiles, laughs, and ribs ‘em right back. Father taught me and my brother exactly what I’m tryin’ to teach you. What people say ‘bout you doesn’t fuckin’ matter. Life is too bloody short to be hung up on every miserable prick who tries to bring others down to his level because he has nothin’ better to do. And there are goin’ to be people in the Reach who will do just that. The Reach is a great place, lad. For true. And you shouldn’t let some cranky cunt ruin it for you. Lorence is a good man, and his father is an even better one. You’ll love Bandallon. Just don’t let some pompous prick come between you and a knighthood. You know?”

Jon nodded after a moment. “I think so.” Warron seemed pleased, patting him on his back as he got up, nearly sending Jon down the steps.

“I never talk this bloody much,” Warron muttered. “Damn throat’s all parched. Your father got somethin’ in his stores besides ale?”

Jon shrugged. _Why would I know that?_

“What does a man have to do for a bit of bloody Arbor Gold?” The massive man muttered, and turned to walk away, before stopping suddenly.

“Seven hells,” Warron said. “I nearly forgot the reason Lorence sent me lookin’ for you in the first place.” He turned back to Jon. “Come on, lad. Your knight wishes to speak with you.”

“Won’t he ask why it took so long?” Jon asked, suddenly worried at the prospect of Ser Lorence finding out about him sulking after receiving his toast. _Most likely not the typical response one has after one receives such a toast._

“He might.” Warron said, a small wry smirk on his face. “I’ll tell him that this castle is bloody massive, and that I met some guardsmen along the way who were great company.” Jon matched the massive man’s smirk with one of his own, before joining Warron through the great hall door.

They entered quietly, and approached the high table from the side.

“Found him, ser.” Warron said with his seemingly signature wry smirk. The table’s eyes fell upon him. Jon shot Robb a playful glare as his older brother began to raise his cup in mock salute. Robb lowered it, though not without a smile. Arya seemed ready to begin interrogating him, her six year old curiosity seemingly insatiable, when Ser Lorence spoke.

“Jon! Where’d you run off to?” He asked with a smile.

“Needed some air, ser.” Jon answered sheepishly. 

“Don’t blame you, lad.” Lorence said with a smile. “I just wanted to ask you if you could join me in the training yard an hour before you usually train in the morning. I’ll show you the proper way to clean my armour, and the proper way to help me into it.” Jon nodded in response.

“Fantastic!” Lorence said jovially. “I’ll see you on the morrow then, squire!” _Squire, _Jon thought happily. _Not bastard. _

. . .

Jon awoke before the sun, as if the day were the same as any other. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Jon shook his head in disbelief while reflecting on the weeks since his father had informed him of his squireship, all the way up until the welcoming feast. 

_I’m leaving for the Reach on the morrow. _

_As a squire._

_To a real knight._

Even now, it hadn’t fully sunk in. 

Jon was so used to being ignored, and going unnoticed, that he was not accustomed to anything else. And so, after finding about his squireship, he could not bring himself to tell anyone. His father had left it to him to make it known, but it was three weeks before Jon told anyone. 

Jon knew his father was not one to jape in general, and so the idea that this squireship offer was some grand jape to humiliate and embarrass him was, objectively, preposterous. And yet, he still felt as though, at any moment, Lady Stark was going to burst in to his rooms with guards and cuffs, and send him to the Wall without so much as a goodbye. _Seeing as I haven’t been holding back in sparring anymore, and judging by the downright glacial looks I have been receiving as a consequence, she would certainly like to do just that._

But it never happened. 

Jon found himself in his training leathers, tourney sword in arm, overlooking the sparring yards from the balcony above. He was so deep in thought, that he hadn’t even noticed he had left his rooms. His body had moved of its own accord, muscle memory performing his usual morning routine without his noticing. The sun could not be seen beyond the double walls of Winterfell, but the deep orange of the eastern summer sky betrayed its presence just below the horizon. 

_THWACK! _

_THWACK!_

_THWACK!_

Jon was interrupted from his reverie by the familiar sound of a straw training dummy being struck over and over by a tourney sword, however it was the time of day that gave him pause. _I’m the only one who trains this early._

Jon descended the steps hesitantly, not wanting to disturb the, as of yet, unidentified stranger. Once he reached the bottom, he could not hold in his gasp. 

There were four training dummies set in a diamond, and the man in the middle was engaging them in a ferocious dance. The strength, speed, and skill the man possessed were leagues above any that Jon had never seen before, even from Ser Rodrik. Due to the poor light, the man’s identity remained unknown. However, Jon had a pretty good guess. 

Jon stood mesmerized for a few minutes, while the last of the training dummies were dismantled with deadly skill. The sun could just be seen over the east walls, and Jon got a good look at the stranger as he began cleaning up his mess. _Knew it._

“You haven’t slain the lot of the straw dummies, have you, ser?”

Ser Lorence’s eyes snapped to Jon’s, surprise at his unexpected spectator obvious, before breaking out into a grin.

“Oh no, my young squire.” Ser Lorence drawled. “These were only the most fearsome. I’ve saved the more docile ones for everyone else. It’s a thankless duty, but someone must do it.”

Jon laughed at that, unable to contain the grin on his face. _It’s really happening_, he reminded himself. _Not a dream. Not a cruel jape._

“I believe I said an hour before you normally begin,” Ser Lorence said, clearly amused as he joined Jon on the sidelines. “Not five hours before.”

“I fear I’m an hour late, then.” Jon answered.

“You’re always up training this early?” Ser Lorence asked.

“Always.” Jon confirmed. “It’s the only time I can train as hard as I want.”

Lorence gave him a puzzled look. _Shit. I’ve said too much_. “What do you do during the designated training hours then?”

“Train as hard as I am expected to.” Jon answered vaguely, hesitant to tell the full story. As much as Ser Lorence had endeared himself to Jon, and with their initial frostiness was all but forgotten, the knight was still someone Jon did not know. And this was quite a secret. Not even Robb knew that Jon had thrown most of their spars while a certain noble lady was in audience. 

Ser Lorence was not impressed with Jon’s vagueness, if the unsatisfied look he had on his face was anything to go by. However, he pushed no further. 

“And how long do you spend training before even the crows have awakened?” His knight asked instead.

“Until the guard shifts change.” Jon said. “Usually two or three hours.” _Best nobody find out. It would cause undue trouble._

“Not keen on anyone discovering your _extraordinary _work ethic?” Ser Lorence asked knowingly. _I won’t be able to hide much from him, it seems._

“It could cause undue trouble.” Jon said, echoing his thoughts. Ser Lorence fixed him with a calculating stare. After a few seconds, his features shifted. He appeared to be appraising Jon. Challenging him, even.

“It wouldn’t do for the Bastard of Winterfell to be seen training harder than the heir.” Ser Lorence said, eyes never leaving Jon’s. “_Some_ might get the wrong impression.”

Jon bristled instinctually at the title. 

_Words are wind_. _They only harm you if you let them._

The instinctual anger and defensiveness were surprisingly easy to let go. _He made a grand toast less than eight hours ago proclaiming how proud he was to take me as a squire, and we’re back to this? _Confusion was all that remained. _We were getting along. It makes no sense._

There was no scorn or distaste in Ser Lorence’s eyes. The challenging glint to his unwavering stare hadn’t changed. _He’s testing me, _Jon realized. _Seeing if I’ll lash out at him, or close myself off like yesterday._ Jon had no intention of failing this test.

“Aye,” he responded with a chuckle. _Even if his words were a test, they weren’t wrong. And it’s not like the situation isn’t funny._ “My secret plan to murder my father, my siblings, and their mother, and claim Winterfell for myself, would be exposed should any find out that I, a boy of two-and-ten, wake up early for extra training.”

Ser Lorence’s surprised laughter was music to Jon’s ears. _He was clearly expecting a different reaction. _His knight laughed for a few seconds, and once he sobered, his gaze became puzzled.

“You’re an odd one, Jon Snow.” Ser Lorence said. “I allow some unhappy thoughts to visibly anger me for only a moment yesterday, and you become all closed off and short with me, and yet I call you ‘_Bastard of Winterfell_’ to your face and you laugh it off. Does the thickness of your skin change with the wind, or is the Jon Snow of today a different boy from the Jon Snow of yesterday?”

He’d passed the test, it seemed. Yet Ser Lorence had every intention of him failing. For lesson teaching purposes, perhaps. Jon’s brushing off of Ser Lorence’s insult had pleasantly surprised the knight. _Surprised us both._

“I was taught a valuable lesson yesterday,” Jon responded after a beat.

“And what lesson was that?”

“Words are wind.” Jon quoted. “They only hurt you if you let them.”

“A good lesson, indeed.” Ser Lorence said with a knowing smile. “A very tall man taught me much the same when I was your age. You’d best remember that lesson, where we’re going.”

Ser Lorence then surprised Jon by tossing him a tourney sword. Jon barely caught it due to his surprise. Ser Lorence’s responding smile seemed to be both confused and understanding all at once.

“You said two or three hours, didn’t you?”

. . .

Not a sound could be heard in the training yards, as a stunned silence overtook the large audience. Jon hadn’t seen an audience of this size for naught but a simple spar since Lord Edmure had visited. _And yet, not a sound to be heard. Although, this was really no simple spar, was it?_

“You truly are your father’s son, ser.”

“It is unkind to insult my father so, Lord Stark.” Ser Lorence joked, smiling at the compliment nonetheless. “But I shall have to best you left handed next time to make it so.”

Ser Lorence helped Jon’s father up from the dirt of the training grounds. Lord Stark was not usually one for sparring, but he would indulge a guest he didn’t dislike of from time to time. Jon fondly remembered his lord father thrashing a boasting Edmure Tully a few years back, when he came to visit.

“You lasted longer than I usually do, my lord.” Ser Humfrey chimed in from the sidelines. “Lorence has me on my arse in under a minute, most days.”

That seemed to break some of the tension. The crowd of servants, off duty guards, _on_ duty guards, and every highborn in the castle, except Theon, who was elsewhere, started to chuckle uncomfortably. _Slightly better than dead silence, but not by much._

Theon tended to _disappear _when Ser Lorence was around, Jon noticed.

Jon was less in shock than the rest of the audience, but still stunned nonetheless. He’d seen what Ser Lorence could do to training dummies, and had sparred with him a bit during the few hours they’d trained in the early morning, but watching the southern knight _obliterate_ his lord father in under two minutes was truly a sight to behold. He matched Lord Stark blow for blow, never giving an inch. Ser Lorence was taller, stronger, faster, and _far_ more skilled. 

“It was over before it had even begun, honestly.” Ser Rodrik had muttered quietly to Jon and Robb not long after the defeat, never being one to miss an opportunity for a lesson.

As the crowd began to filter away, Jon thought he heard two guards muttering something about ‘_the Sword of the Morning_’, and ‘_my arse_’. They shut up quite quickly once they realized Jon had heard them.

_Odd._

“Well, that was embarrassing.”

Both Jon and Robb jumped at the new voice directly behind them, and spun around quickly.

“Uncle Benjen!” They chorused, wrapping their uncle in a bear hug. Benjen returned it with a chuckle. 

“Father didn’t tell us you were coming!” Robb accused after extracting his face from Benjen’s massive black cloak.

“That’s because I didn’t tell him.” Benjen responded jovially, before his happiness dulled slightly. He still wore a smile, but his eyes longer crinkled, like they usually did when he smiled. Like they had not five seconds previous. “I’d heard that my nephew was off to become a knight! I had to see him off.” _He’s not pleased, for some reason. Did he want me to come to the Wall with him?_

“I don’t leave until tomorrow.” Jon said.

“All the better!” Benjen exclaimed. “We can spend some quality time together before you’re off winning tourneys and wooing maidens.”

“He’d have to learn not stutter over all of his words first.” Robb put in with a smirk.

“I don’t stutt—”

“Is that your knight?” Uncle Benjen asked, interrupting Jon’s righteous defence of his own honour. He directed a glance towards Lorence, who was making his way over to the group, still in his shiny, nickel grey armour, remarkably unadorned compared to Jon’s expectations.

“It is, Uncle.” Jon said. Uncle Benjen’s eyebrows rose.

“Jon! There you are!” Ser Lorence called as he approached. “Lord Robb. And…?”

“Benjen Stark. First Ranger of the Night’s Watch.” Uncle Benjen greeted, the two older men clapping forearms. “I’m uncle to these two troublemakers.”

“Well met, my lord.” Ser Lorence greeted with a smile. “I am Ser Lorence Roxton. Jon here is my squire.”

“You’re the man who just embarrassed my older brother in his own training yard?” Benjen asked with a small smirk on his face.

“The very same.” Ser Lorence agreed. Jon was watching the interaction between the two men closely. _I’m not sure why, but I really want Uncle Benjen to like Ser Lorence._

The two men shared a laugh, before Benjen leaned in and murmured something in Ser Lorence’s ear. Ser Lorence’s smile dimmed a bit, determination set in his features. When Benjen leaned back, Ser Lorence gave him a grave nod. 

“I promise, my lord.” Ser Lorence said lowly to Benjen, not breaking eye contact. “On my honour.”

“Good. I believe you.” Benjen said back, just as quietly, before turning to Robb. “Come along, mighty heir! Jon’s got armour to scour!” Benjen all but dragged Robb away, not before the two brothers shared a confused look.

“You remember what I taught you this morning?” Ser Lorence asked after they had left, and guided him to a bench.

“Yes, ser.”

Jon started on the straps of the vambraces on Ser Lorence’s forearms.

“You’ve already gotten quicker at that.” Ser Lorence said. Jon smiled at the praise.

“Thank you, ser.”

“Enough of that _ser_ nonsense, lad.” Ser Lorence said. “You and I are going to get to know each other quite well. My name is Lorence. That’s all you need call me.”

“As you say, s— Lorence.” Jon stuttered. He removed the left and right vambraces, and placed them next to Lorence’s already removed gauntlets. He moved up the arm, and began undoing the pauldrons covering Lorence’s upper arms. _I wonder what he and Uncle Benjen spoke of?_

“I can see you’ve something on your mind, lad.” Lorence said with a small chuckle. “What is it? You can ask me whatever you like.”

“It’s none of my business, ser.” Jon responded shyly. _How can he read me so easily?_ Lorence gave him a pointed look. “It’s none of my business, _Lorence_.” He corrected himself.

“It might be.” Lorence agreed. “But you’ll never know if you don’t ask.”

“What, um, what were you and my uncle discussing?” Jon muttered hesitantly. 

“Oh. That’s no big deal at all.” Lorence said with a laugh. “He was just making sure that I would treat you well. Your uncle cares for you, and was making sure I wasn’t an evil southerner who was going to sacrifice you to the Seven as punishment your lustful and deceitful ways.”

Jon removed the left and right pauldrons, adding them to the rest of the discarded armour, laughing all the while at Lorence’s jest. He set to the more complex ties of Lorence’s cuirass, covering his torso.

“How can you read me so well?” Jon asked after a few moment’s silence.

“It’s something I’m good at. Reading people.” Lorence replied. “It’s a skill you learn quickly in King’s Landing, if you wish to survive.”

“I thought I was good at it, too.” Jon admitted quietly. “That’s why I was so curt with you when we first spoke. I thought you hated me, because I’m a bastard.”

“Most people wouldn’t have even noticed what you noticed.” Lorence countered. “You’re an observant boy. You knew how I felt, but you _assumed_ why. That was your mistake. Never assume that you know what someone is thinking, especially if you do not know them. We can read people’s expressions, and tones, and their choices of words, and understand _how_ they feel, but we can only guess _why_.”

“You learned this in King’s Landing?”

“Yes.” Lorence answered grimly. “Out of every ten words spoken in that retched city, nine are false. And all ten are spoken by someone who sees you as a stepping stone to elevate their standing. It’s a city filled with ambitious, greedy, spineless little worms who will say any and everything, if they feel it will advance their station.”_Lying comes as easy to them as breathing, Father said._

Jon didn’t quite know how to respond to that. _He’s selling the South quite well._

Lorence let out a humourless laugh. “Ice calling the snow cold.” He muttered. At Jon’s confused expression, Lorence smiled. “It’s an expression my father enjoys using. It describes a person accusing others of a sin, while being guilty of that sin themselves. It’s an eloquent way of calling someone a hypocrite.”

“I don’t think you’re a hypocrite, Lorence.” Jon said, finishing the last of the straps of the cuirass, before lifting it over Lorence’s head, and setting it down next to the rest. Lorence stretched at the loss of weight, and Jon caught a closer look at the masterfully made piece of armour. _Not unadorned, simply subtle._ A pattern of interlocking rings decorated the entirety of the cuirass, the deep gold colour of the rings blending quite nicely against the dark plate. The ring pattern also jutted out from the plate very slightly, perhaps an eighth of an inch.

“Oh, but I’m speaking like a hypocrite.” Lorence said, amused. He waved Jon off to undo the straps of his cuisses and greaves himself. “I’m quite a talented lier myself, really. I believe I’ve kept my _disapprobation_ towards House Tully quite well hidden during my conversations with the Lady Stark, wouldn’t you say?”

“What does that mean?”

“Disapprobation?”

“Aye.”

“Disapproval,” Lorence said, “Dislike, disdain, pick your word. It doesn’t matter to me. We’re going to have go catch you up on some of the unnecessarily large words we’re so fond of in the South. Makes us feel smarter than we really are.”

“You don’t seem to like the South all that much, Lorence.”  
“Oh no, I adore the South.” Lorence clarified quite quickly. “I simply dislike some of the people in the South. And I quite enjoy mocking them.”

“All I’ve heard of the South were of their gallant knights and fair maidens.” Jon said with a mocking edge to his voice. “You make it sound like one of your Seven hells.”

“We have our fair share of fair maidens.” Lorence admitted. “Not quite as many gallant knights, but they do exist. There are far more pompous, arrogant lordlings who portray themselves as gallant knights, and get _very_ offended if you suggest otherwise, however.

“You see, my young squire,” Lorence continued. “In the South, there are knights, and then there are _knights_. And far more fall in to the former category, rather than the latter. For every Garlan the Gallant, there are ten Meryn Trant’s. For every Barristan the Bold, there are one hundred Amory Lorch’s. I intend for you to fall into the second category.”

“I will do my very best to do that.” _I’ve no idea who any of those people are. Except Barristan the Bold, but everyone knows him._

“Good.” Lorence said with a smile, as he finished removing his final greave. “The first step in the path to greatness is to make sure your knight’s armour is scoured spotless. This was always my _favourite_ part of the job. You’re released for the night after you finish this.”

“Seven hells.” Jon muttered, gathering the various pieces in his hands. He could hear Lorence chuckle behind him.

“Oh, Lorence?”

“Yes, lad?”

“What category are you?”  
Lorence stared at him a long moment, before answering, eyes more solemn than they’d been all day.

“Depends on who you ask, I suppose.”

. . .

Jon spent the better part of the afternoon in the armoury scouring Lorence’s plate. It was an exhausting practice. As hard as he tried, the streaks left from his rough spun wool cloth wouldn’t go away. If he moved to wipe away the old streaks, new streaks took their place. 

It was _infuriating_.

But Lorence said _scoured spotless_, and so Jon endeavoured to deliver _scoured spotless_.

After nearly two hours of wiping the set down, and re-wiping away all of the streaks, to no avail, one of Mikken’s apprentices dropped by the armoury to deliver some of the weeks freshly repaired mail, and had noticed Jon’s difficulties.

“You’ve got to wipe with the grain, not against it. And use vinegar, instead of water.” The boy said.

“My thanks.”

The task was far easier after that. In only a half an hour, Jon could see his own reflection in Lorence’s dark plate. He was so exhausted, that he brought the armour to Lorence’s guest chambers, and went immediately to bed. 

_Dinner is only an hour away. I’ll awaken then._

. . .

That had been the plan, at least. 

But when Jon had awoken, it was pale moonlight painting the floor of his chambers, not the pink glow of sunset. _I’ve slept through dinner._ _And perhaps much longer than that._

Jon exited his chambers, and the eerie silence betrayed the fact that the entire castle had found their beds. _There will be left over in the kitchens, surely._

Jon walked briskly down the corridor, only to slow his steps considerably once he realized that he would have to walk past his siblings’ rooms to reach the kitchens. _It’s better if no one wakes up._ Should any of his siblings, perhaps save Robb, awaken to find Jon sneaking to the kitchens, it wouldn’t stay a secret for long.

He crept along the corridor, taking care to ensure his steps made as little sound as possible, when he heard a murmuring of male voices. It was an exchange consisting of shouted whispers, and quiet grumbling. _An argument. In the family wing?_ It was taking place just around the corner. _No kitchens tonight, it seems._

Jon was about to turn back to his room in defeat, when one word from the hushed disagreement caught his attention. _Not a word. A name. _My_ name._

These two people were arguing about him. Or, at the very least, he was mentioned in the argument. _It’s none of my business_, he reminded himself. 

_They said your name_, his hunger and sleep addled mind fought, wolf’s blood clearly taking over. _That’s enough to make it your business._

_If they catch me, _his rational self reasoned, already resigned to the act, _I’ll just say I was heading to the kitchens, because I slept through dinner. It wouldn’t _necessarily _be a lie. Just a half-truth._

And so, Jon began eavesdropping. 

As he crept closer, he began to recognize the voices. _It’s Father. And Uncle Benjen._ He paused right before the corner, remaining unseen. He could hear clearly now.

“… you’d send _her_ _son_ south? After what happened to Brandon? After what happened to Father?After what happened to…” Uncle Benjen’s whisper-shouted voice broke off in emotion.

_Her son._ Uncle Benjen knew the identity of Jon’s mother.

“I know, Ben. But I would trust Lord Moryn with my life.” His father grumbled, clearly exasperated. “He is _my son_. If you think I wouldn’t give him over to someone whom I trust _implicitly_, you do not know me at all.”

“Do _not_ call him that.” Uncle Benjen nearly yelled, clearly struggling to keep his fury under control. “He will be _her son_ before he will ever be yours. You didn’t know her like I did, Ned. He’s always been hers to me. He always will be.”

_Uncle Benjen knows who my mother is. He knew her well. More than Father, apparently. Perhaps she _is_ highborn after all. Piss on what bloody Greyjoy has to say of it._

“I know, Ben.” Father said. Jon could imagine that he was giving Uncle Benjen the same soft eyed, understanding look that he saved only for family. “I know. But I need you to trust me. I’ve thought long and hard on this matter, and I know this is the best choice for him.”

“I do like Jon’s knight.” Uncle Benjen conceded after a beat. “He’s not like other southerners. He’ll treat him well. I just worry about everyone else. Southerners are a cruel people, Ned. They’ll treat him like the dirt under their flowery-scented boots.”

“Perhaps.” Father agreed reluctantly. “But Ser Lorence won’t. Lord Moryn won’t. He’s even got on with some of the guards, I’ve seen. House Roxton is not like other southern houses, it appears. They don’t use piety as a way to mask their cruelty and sense of superiority. And would he have gotten treated any better at the Wall?”

“Likely not.” Uncle Benjen conceded reluctantly, albeit frustratingly, as if he loathed to admit that his older brother were right. “He’d be treated as a lowly bastard by the few highborns, and as a spoiled lordling prick by the many lowborns. Bitterness is all that men at the Wall feel, for the most part, and he’d likely pay the price for that. But he’d have me.”

“At the cost of his freedom.” Father pointed out. “And he’ll have a chance to become more than what he is. A knight commands respect, even one of bastard birth.”

Uncle Benjen scoffed. “You gave him his status to begin with. And now you wish for him to _earn_ something better?” He drawled sarcastically.

“_I had no choice!_” Father whisper-yelled back, suddenly more furious then Jon had ever heard him. “You _know_ I had no choice!”

Someone took a deep breath, as if trying to calm themselves. A tense silence lingered. Eventually, Lord Stark broke it.

“Perhaps we should finish this conversation elsewhere,” He said. “and not disturb the children's sleep.”

Jon panicked. _What if they come this way? They’ll see me. They’ll know I was eavesdropping. They’ll know—_

“Jon?”

Jon looked up, his father and uncle were staring at him, confused.

“What are you doing up so late, lad?” Uncle Benjen asked, almost nervously.

“I slept through dinner.” Jon said, praising himself that his voice gave away no hint of what he was hiding. “I was going to the kitchens, to get some food.”

“Oh, alright.” Father said, seemingly relieved. The tension did not leave Uncle Benjen, however. “Tough day?”

“Scouring armour is much harder than I thought.” Jon grumbled good-naturedly. The older men huffed out a chuckle, before sending him on his way.

“Oh! Jon.” His father said, before Jon could flee.

“Yes, father?”

“Come see me in my solar on the morrow, before you’re set to leave.” Father said. “I’ve a gift for you.”

“Yes, father.” Jon said, barely hearing him. He didn’t even wait for a response, nor a dismissal, before heading the other way.

Jon didn’t go to the kitchens. He’d lost his appetite. He felt his feet carry him out of the Great Keep altogether, and he relished in the cool, night air. He found himself in the training yards, tourney sword in hand, practicing some techniques he’d been taught by Lorence that morning. These techniques favoured him more than the ones Ser Rodrik had taught. They consisted of faster, more graceful strikes, more suited to a swordsman who’s greatest ally was his speed and quickness. Ser Rodrik’s techniques often favoured strength, which suited Robb, and most northmen, better. _I’ll be able to thrash Robb even easier, now. Bet that’ll please Lady Stark._

Training always calmed him. Anytime Jon was worked up, he put a tourney sword in his hand, and began to practice. It gave him something to focus on. It grounded him. Swordsmanship always helped him to clear his mind, and focus any rogue thoughts.

_Uncle Benjen knew my mother, and knew her well._

_Knew her so well to the point where he considers me my mother’s son, instead of his own brother’s._

_He said that father didn’t know her like he ‘did’. So he doesn’t know her any longer._

_Does that mean she’s…_

_No. _Jon perished the thought altogether. Surely his father would’ve told him if his mother was dead. Jon was used to enduring cruelties others would never understand, but to allow Jon to hope and dream of a mother who had been dead the whole time would be a different sort of cruelty in and of itself. _And father is not nearly that cruel. He would do a servant the favour of informing them of a parent’s death, let alone his own blood._

_Right?_

. . .

Jon had checked all her favourite hiding spots. The bridge between the Great Keep and the armoury. The stables. Even the godswood. But there was no sign of little Arya. Which must mean only one thing. _The little grumpkin is _actually _in her lessons. Who’d have thought?_

Jon’s feet carried him apprehensively to the sewing chambers. Arya would be scowling through her needlework, enduring mocking laughs from Jeyne Poole and disapproving tuts from the septa. He doubted Arya would mind if he stole her away for a few minutes. Jon wanted to say a proper goodbye to his little sister. Propriety and custom would demand he give her a few parting words, a hug at most, before moving down the line to the next sibling, when they said their farewell at the gates. That would suffice for Robb, Father, and the rest of the siblings. But not Arya. _Not like she’s one to put much stock in the rules anyway_, Jon thought fondly.

Jon knocked on the door of the sewing chamber. He stepped back with his hands behind his back, and his eyes trained to the floor.

“Yes, boy?” The septa asked as she opened the door, nose crinkled as if she’d just caught a whiff of her chamber pot. _Perhaps you’ve soiled yourself, septa. You’re certainly old enough._

“Lord Stark has sent for Lady Arya.” Jon spoke meekly, managing to keep from smirking and ruining his docile act. “He has sent me to retrieve her.”

“And why would he send you?” The septa asked suspiciously, narrowing her eyes.

“It was convenient.” Jon answered. “He and I were already speaking.”

The septa narrowed her eyes, before sniffing in disdain.

“Fine.” The septa said with a scowl. “Lady Arya, your Lord Father has sent for you.”

Jon nearly gave up the act to chuckle at the quick rustle of fabric, and then quicker footsteps that came from behind the cracked door. 

“Jon!” A little voice squealed, before he was assaulted by little arms wrapping around his torso. He chuckled.

“Hello, little sister.” He said with a smile. “Come now, Father wishes to speak with you.”

“He’s not sending me to marry some old fat lord, is he?” Arya asked with suspicious eyes.

“You’ll have to find out, I suppose.” Jon said with a chuckle. They began to walk away, when Arya eyed him suspiciously.

“This isn’t the way to—” She began, before shutting up after Jon discretely poked her in the side. He could still feel the septa’s eyes burning holes into his back, and didn’t want his plan to fail. Jon shot her a pointed look, and she winked up at him. He looked back up with a smile, and began leading her away to one of her favourite hiding spots.

“I’m afraid I’ve told an awful lie, little sister.” Jon intoned sarcastically. “To an official of the Faith, no less. Father has not, in fact, sent for you. I hope you’ll pray for me when I burn in the Seven Hells. It’s more than I deserve, for such a monstrous crime.” Arya gave him a conspiratorial smile, and shoved him with a laugh as they turned a corner.

They came out to onto the bridge between the Great Keep and the armoury, and walked over to the balcony overlooking the training yard. Once Arya caught a look at the group training down below, her smile vanished.

“He’s really good.” Arya said in a flat voice, looking down on Lorence. He was sparring against Ser Humfrey, neither in their armour. Lorence was walking Humfrey around the yard, on a constant attack, never giving the shorter man a change to counter. It took less than a minute, before Ser Humfrey was disarmed, and Lorence held his wooden sword to his friend’s throat, a smile on their faces.

“Aye.” Jon agreed. “He sure is.”

“And he’s going to train you.” Arya said unemotionally, eyes not leaving the training yard, even though they began to get a little misty.

“Aye.” Jon agreed, again.

“And you… you’re going to… you’re…” She trailed off, sobs escaping even though she tried to hold them in.

“Oh, little sister.” Jon said, sweeping Arya into a fierce hug, and she cried her eyes out into his shoulder. They stayed like that for a minute or so, Jon whispering calming words into her ear. Eventually, Arya pulled back.

“I don’t want you to leave.” She said, in the tiniest of voices, and Jon’s heart shattered.

Guilt then hit Jon like a thousand bricks. He’d been so caught up in his own ambition, and his own selfish wants for his own future, that he hadn’t even considered how his family would feel. Sansa wouldn’t miss him, he was positive. Rickon would not even remember him, newborn babe that he was. Bran would forget him soon enough. He might be sad for a few days, but he would be fairly indifferent before long. Robb was old enough to know that Jon wouldn’t be gone forever, that he could write to Jon anytime, and that Jon would visit as often as he could. Robb would miss him, but _also_ knew how important this was to Jon. And that he would be back.

Arya on the other hand…

Jon did not remember much about being six years old, but he remembered enough to know that to Arya, this was the biggest upheaval in her short life. Jon knew he was her favourite brother, and he was usually the only one she could run to if Jeyne Poole was too cruel, or the scolding from the septa or her mother became too much, or if she was in an argument with Sansa. He’s sure that Arya was not only feeling sadness at his leaving, but a bit of betrayal as well. As if he was leaving her on her own.

“Hey. Listen to me.” Jon crouched down to her level, put his hands on her shoulders, and met her eye to eye. “I’m going to miss you. So, _so_ much. But it’s not forever, Arya. I’ll visit when I can. You can write to me every day if you wish. Write to me when the septa drives mad enough that you want to pull out your own hair. Write to me when you beat Bran when you spar with sticks in the godswood. Write to me when you and Robb play another prank on Sansa. It’ll be like I never left at all. But once I’m knighted, I’m coming home to swear myself here. I’m going to be a sworn sword, and I can spar with you any time you like, and I’ll never leave again.” 

He was telling her sweet nothings, he knew. But reassurances were what she needed to hear right now. _Even if they weren’t exactly truthful._

“Besides,” Jon said with a smirk. “Who knows? Perhaps you’ll forget all about me, huh?”

“Never!” Arya said with a fervent shake of her head, distracted out of her sadness momentarily. “I wouldn’t!”

“That’s good.” Jon said with a smile. “Because I won’t forget you either. My little wolf sister, fiercer than a thousand armies. In a million years, how could I?”

Tears came anew to Arya’s eyes, but these did not have the anguish and fear of the ones that currently stained his tunic, he knew. She flung her tiny arms around his neck, squeezing with a surprising strength. They stayed like that another long moment.

“Be good, but not too good. Alright? This isn’t goodbye forever.” Jon said with a smirk when she disentangled her arms from him. Arya gave him a shaky nod and a smile. He responded with a muss of her hair. Her smile widened. _Hopefully Lady Stark gives up trying to turn her into the perfect lady. She’s not Sansa. They’re more different than night and day._

“What are _you_ doing here?”

Jon furrowed his brow in confusion. The smile was gone from her face, a glare taking it’s place on her tear-stained face. She wiped at her cheeks furiously, as if she didn’t want to be caught crying.

Jon then turned to the doorway that they had come through not five minutes previous. As if summoned from his thoughts, Sansa was there in the doorway, looking extremely uncomfortable.

“I was, um… I was looking for Jon.” Sansa said, looking embarrassed.

“Why?” Arya shot back immediately.

“I wanted to speak with him.” Sansa said, as if it was obvious.

“Why?” Arya repeated again.

“It’s okay, Arya.” Jon said with a small chuckle, though he was no less confused than she was. “Get back to your lessons. If they ask you what father wanted, you have full permission to say that the evil bastard tricked you.” He finished with a smirk, getting a small smile from Arya. She reluctantly ran away, but not before giving Sansa a glare, as if Arya was reluctant to leave Jon alone with her.

“How can I help you, Sansa?”

She approached him, intricate dress flowing and chin held high. _Ever the lady._ The act died fairly soon once she came up next to him.

“I-I wanted to speak with you.” Sansa said, clearly nervous.

“You said that already.” Jon pointed out with a smile before he could stop himself. It was something he would’ve said with any other of his siblings, but Sansa was different. She had always been distant towards him. Never unkind, but always at an arm’s length. He held no resentment toward her, however. She wanted to please her mother, and treating Jon as if he were beneath her was a sure-fire way to please Catelyn Tully Stark. _Gods know how much I try to replicate father, in an attempt to please him. I understand well._

Sansa flushed in embarrassment, and seemed like she wanted to flee. _What cause does she have to be nervous to speak to me? If anything, it should be the other way around. _

“I’m sorry, Sansa.” Jon said to break the awkward tension. “A poor jest. What did you want to speak—”

“I’m sorry.” She blurted out before he could finish, before rushing to finish. “I’m sorry about what happened in Mother’s solar. I-I just tried to help Jeyne, I didn’t even think. She’s in love with Robb, and she thinks Robb is her gallant knight from the songs, and I just tried to help her, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay, Sansa.” Jon interrupted gently. _This was certainly unexpected._ “But life is not a song. I understand that better than most.” Sansa gave him a look that was so heartbroken, that Jon almost took it back. _I didn’t mean to tear her entire world down. Seven hells, just keep your mouth shut, you fool._ He half expected her to run away crying, and then he would really be in trouble. But she didn’t. Instead, she did the last thing he expected her to.

She flung her arms around her neck, squeezing tightly. Jon stood frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do, before she tightened her arms briefly, almost like permission to hug her back. Which he did, tucking her head under his chin. They stayed like that for a short moment, before Sansa whispered, “I’m _so_ sorry.” Jon pulled back puzzled.

“What for?” He asked confused.

“For mother.” She said, before going down her list. “For how she treats you. For how _I_ treat you. For how the septa treats you. For how Jeyne treats you. For how everyone looks down on you. It’s not fair. You didn’t ask to be father’s bastard. But people treat you horribly for it. It’s not _fair._”

Jon couldn’t help let out a small chuckle. _This was the last thing I expected today._ He looked into her eyes, searching for the lie, but not finding anything but truth.

“Life isn’t fair, Sansa.” Jon said with a sad smile. “If forgiveness is what you wish for, you have it. But I don’t blame you. I never have. There’s nothing to forgive.”

“T-Truly?” She asked, as though she didn’t think he would forgive her this easily. He forgot sometimes how _young_ Sansa was, with how prim and proper she carried herself, and how politely and perfectly she spoke. But she was only eight, nearly nine. With how nervous she’d acted when she’d first found Jon and Arya, it was clear to Jon that she’d felt this way for a while, and this wasn’t just a spontaneous thing. Likely, she’d wanted to tell this to him for some time, and realized that she might not get another chance for a long while. And now, here she was, begging for forgiveness as if she’d committed some horrible crime, fearing she would be rejected by her older brother. Her own blood. _I can’t do that to her._

“Truly.” Jon confirmed with a smile. Sansa smiled back, and flung her arms around him again. Jon hugged her back with a laugh. Had it been Arya, this would normally be the point he mussed her hair, but he had an inkling that Sansa wouldn’t appreciate that very much.

“Better get back to your lessons, Sansa.” Jon said. “I don’t know what excuse you used, but I very much doubt the septa is as used to you disappearing as she is your sister.” He could feel Sansa nod into his chest. She separated herself from him, and turned to walk away, before stopping suddenly.

“Jon?”

“Hmm?”

“I’d like to be your sister.” She said hesitantly. “For true. I know I haven’t been in the past, and that you’re about to leave, but—”

“I’d like that, Sansa.” Jon answered with a smile, which she gave back in response.

“I’m sure you have things to prepare, for your departure.” Sansa said, ever proper. “I’ll let you get back to that.”

“Alright, Sansa.” Jon said with a chuckle. “I’ll see you before I leave.” 

She left him on the bridge, wondering what the fuck just happened.

. . .

“Come in.”

Jon entered his father’s solar at his command, to find him sitting at his desk. _Even with guests, duties wait for no man_. His father looked tired. He often doesn’t look _anything_. Not tired, not energized, not sad, not happy, not calm nor angry. His inscrutably stern face was what he was best known for amongst the castle staff, Jon had found. It could make him seem unapproachable to some, but Jon knew the man underneath the mask. He was kind, and strong. He was _Father_.

“Jon.” His father greeted with a nod of his head, and a small smile. “Good. You’re all packed?”

“Nearly, father.” Jon replied. He had less than two hours before they had to depart, and he still had to saddle Lorence’s horse.

“Good to hear.” Father said. “Sit.”

Jon sat across from him. Lord Stark rose from his chair, and turned to the shelf behind him, taking out a small package, wrapped in a dark piece of fabric. He turned back around, and presented it to Jon.

“Go ahead.” Father prompted. “Open it.”

Jon did as he was bid. He was greeted with a sheathed dagger, with an unadorned hand guard, and a high quality leather grip. The sheath was leather as well, with a strap so that he could attach the weapon to his belt. He looked back up at his father, for permission. His father nodded his assent, and Jon unsheathed the dagger.

The steel was perfectly made, a touch over a foot in length, an deadly sharp. Just above where the steel met the hand guard, the maker’s mark of Mikken, the Winterfell blacksmith, was stamped. Jon looked back up to his father.

“Thank you, father.” Jon said, attempting to keep the emotion from his voice. Jon received gifts from his father on his nameday, but never one like this. Lord Stark offered him a kind smile.

“I’d have given you a sword,” his father said, almost regretfully. “but it is a knight’s duty to arm and armour his squire. You’ll earn the right to wear and bear steal, I’ve no doubt. This is the best I can offer you at the moment, son.”

Jon nearly got choked up again at the sentiment, but forced it down, offering a smile instead. He would _not_ cry in front of his father. Lord Stark made it easier, by coming around his desk and opening his arms. Jon set the dagger down, and melted into his father’s embrace, and held him tightly. _It will be the last one for a long while_.

“I’m going to miss you, son.” His father said. “And I am so, _so_, proud of you. No matter what anyone says, you are a _Stark_. You may not have my name, but you have my blood. You will always have a place in Winterfell. It’s your home. _Never_ forget that.”

Jon couldn’t do anything but nod into his chest and embrace him harder. 

Unbidden, and ruining the moment _completely_, Jon remembered the conversation he had interrupted the previous night. 

_He will be her son before he will ever be yours._

_You didn’t know her like I did, Ned._

Jon pulled away from his father’s embrace slightly.

“Father?”

“Yes, son?”

“Last night,” Jon began, avoiding his father’s eyes, noting his father tensing immediately. “I overheard you and Uncle Benjen. I wasn’t eavesdropping! I wasn’t! I just… he knew my mother, didn’t he?” Jon _hated_ how childish he sounded. But he couldn’t help it.

His father looked at him for a few seconds, before answering.

“Yes, he did.”

“I heard him say that he knew her better than you.” Jon said, noting his father tense even _more_.

“He did.” His father confirmed.

“Who… who is she?”

His father breathed a sigh of anguish. Jon could see the pain in his eyes. As much as it hurt Jon to not know the identity of his mother, even whether she was living or dead, he could see how much the mention of her hurt his father. It’d stopped Jon from properly interrogating him many times. It also gave him comfort that, even if he didn’t know her name, he knew his father had loved her. Some petty part of him felt some sort of vindictive victory at knowing that his father had loved his mother more than he had Lady Catelyn when Robb was sired. It was feeling he felt awful about, but one he had nonetheless.

“Tell you what,” Lord Stark said, voice pained. “Next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother. I… I can’t speak of her. Not right now.”

_Disappointed, but not surprised._

“Alright, father.” Jon said, more glumly than he’d intended, because his father’s eyes shot up to his.

“She loved you, son.” He said. “She loved you so much. _Never_ doubt that.”

Jon smiled at that. He picked up his new dagger, and began walking towards the solar door. 

In the tension of the situation, he’d failed to notice that his father had used past tense.

_Loved._

. . .

It was time to go.

Lorence’s horse was saddled, as was Jon’s. Jon was all packed. His thinnest tunics, lightest breeches, and every copper star and silver stag he could find. He’d even packed a tourney sword, on the word of Ser Rodrik, but Lorence had told him not to bother.

“We’ve plenty at Bandallon.” He’d said. “Not to worry.”

Jon’s knight was on his horse, short brown hair blowing slightly in the wind, blue eyes surveying the courtyard. His eyes caught Jon’s and he gave him a nod. _Now’s the time._

Jon led his horse over to the open gate, next to the rest of the southern retinue. Lorence and Ser Humfrey were saddled, and Warron Tallflowers was barking orders to the rest of the guards as they all prepared to leave. Jon made sure his clothes and coin were secure on the side of his horse, before turning towards his family. 

Rickon was back in the nursery, as it was too cold for a babe to be out in this weather. Jon had made sure to visit him. Lady Stark hadn’t been there, and the maid was one of the kinder ones. She let him say goodbye to his baby brother without question. _Thank the gods._

He approached his father first. Like others in the family, they’d shared a private goodbye. This was the official one, but not the one before mattered the most.

“Lord Stark.”

“Jon.” His father said, and put one hand on Jon’s shoulder. “I wish you the best of luck. I know you’ll do our house proud.”

Jon nodded with a smile. “Thank you.”

He moved on to Lady Catelyn. “My lady.” He said, offering her a small nod. He had no idea how to say goodbye without causing some sort of awkward tension, and so this was the best he’d thought of. Lady Stark seemed grateful that he’d not said anymore, and yet still deferred to her, so she said nothing.

Robb was next. He brought Jon in for a big hug, patting his back multiple times. Jon squeezed him back just as tightly.

“Hopefully we’ll see each other again before I have to call you ‘Ser.’” Robb said with a smile.

“Hopefully.” Jon agreed. “But I’ll always be just Jon to you.”

“Pulling rank already, Snow?” Robb japed good-naturedly. “Slow down. You’ll be declaring yourself King soon if you don’t watch it.” Jon shared a laugh with his brother. _The last one for a long time._

He moved onto Sansa next. Despite the conversation they had on the bridge, he wasn’t sure how to interact with her. But she’d said that she wanted to be his sister. _For true_. So he’d treat her as such.

“Farewell, Jon”

“Farewell, Sansa.”

He pulled her into a brief hug. “Write to me, yeah?”

“I will.” She confirmed. He pulled back with a smile.

His next goodbye was Arya. 

This one was considerably less tearful as the private one they’d shared. She’d still clung tightly to him, and told him how much she was going to miss him. But she hadn’t begged him not to go. And her lip had only wobbled a touch. She was putting on a brave face.

“I’m going to miss you, little sister.”

“I’m going to miss you more.”

Jon smiled at that. “I doubt it.” 

Arya shot him a small smile. One that said: “_I’m going to be okay._” 

Jon shot her one back. One that said: “_I know._”

Jon’s last goodbye was to Bran. The young boy gave him a fierce hug, and cried only a little. When Jon promised him he’d bring him back a gift, his younger brother’s death grip subsided.

“When you’re a knight, can I be _your_ squire?”

“Of course, Bran.”

That had been enough for Bran. He’d smiled, and Jon mussed his unruly auburn hair.

“All set?” Lorence called.

“Aye.” Jon responded.

He marched to his horse, head held high, and saddled up. Lorence gave the word, and the retinue set out.

As they passed under the double walls of Winterfell, Jon had only one thing on his mind.

_I will re-enter these walls as Ser Jon Snow. Nothing less._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so here's the longest chapter yet.
> 
> It's like Where's Waldo, but with foreshadowing. And alliterations. I really do love alliterations lmao.
> 
> And Sansa and Jon actually _acknowledging each other_ before Robert comes to Winterfell. It doesn't happen enough. 
> 
> Last time, I said a week, and it ended up being a month. With the holidays behind us, I'll be sure to update more frequently. But my promises clearly mean nothing, so I won't make any this time.
> 
> Next up: Lorence II


	6. LORENCE II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long trek home.

LORENCE II

It was their sixth day on the Kingsroad. 

_We should be passing through Moat Cailin on the morrow. _

The weather had, thankfully, warmed up considerably the closer they got to the Neck. Lord Stark had kindly outfitted all of the Roxton men with furs more appropriate for the climate, but they had no longer been necessary after the second night. _We arrive with furs too cold, and depart with furs too warm. If only Lord Stark had gifted us furs that could ward off this damn humidity._

The air of the Neck was suffocating. At times, it felt like they were _swimming_ through the air, not riding through it. _At least the Neck understands the concept of seasons, though._ The air had gradually improved from the nigh on unbearable cold they’d experienced in Winterfell, to a more mild chill, only really uncomfortable when the wind picked up. The only one of their party who’d seemed unperturbed was young Jon.

To his credit, the boy had tried to hide his amusement at the discomfort of his southern companions. However, the young squire hadn’t quite been able to contain his laughter when Humfrey had given one too many petulant complaints. _Humfrey whines with the talent of a young maid. I’d be laughing too._

“We’ll stop here, lads!”

Warron’s booming voice left no room for discussion, and Lorence’s arse agreed quite fervently. _I need a new saddle. This one’s beginning to feel like stone._ He made a mental note to commission a new one from Valko, once back at Bandallon. _The crazy old goat will try to convince me to make it bright gold, or blue, with all sorts of gems and garnets,_ Lorence thought fondly. _The Qohorik are an eccentric people, if nothing else._

Lorence unmounted swiftly, and handed his reigns off to the ready hands of his young squire. 

Jon had impressed, thus far. Lessons and instruction were listened to attentively, and Lorence never had to tell him to do something twice. The boy had even shown the initiative to have something done before Lorence remembered to order it of him. The morning of the second day, and every morning after, Lorence awoke to a horse saddled, and a camp disassembled. _He’s a dutiful boy, that’s for sure. His work ethic does not just extend to swordplay._

Once the horses were watered, fed, and the tents were set up, the sun was setting, and a fire was roaring. Lorence unhooked a few training swords from his saddle, and tossed one to his squire. Jon caught it with a now practiced ease, and the two walked a few feet away from the fire, and began circling one another, beginning their nightly ritual. 

Jon was a patient swordsman, to his credit. “_Impatience leads to frustration, which leads to a lack of focus._” Ser Arys’ voice echoed in his head. Lorence had been an impatient swordsman in his younger days, but Ser Arys had beat that out of him quite early. _Quite literally ‘beat.’ I likely still have a few of the bruises._

“Your patience does you credit, Jon.” Lorence praised with a smile. “But waiting for your opponent to strike means you will begin by fighting _their_ fight. Not yours.” _Another one of Ser Arys’ lessons._

Jon took that as a sign to take a quick strike, which Lorence knocked away easily. “That doesn’t mean you attack immediately.” Lorence chastised, striking back. “Attack when you see an opening. Anything that can catch your foe off guard. Make sure _you_ dictate the tempo and flow of the fight. The man who controls the tempo of the fight, will be the victor, nine times out of ten.” 

Lorence could almost see the boy’s mind working as they fought on. He defended well against Lorence’s strikes. Lorence purposely left his guard down after one, and gave an impressed smile when Jon immediately focused an attack on his sword arm. _He will be _very _good one day, _Lorence thought_. Getting careless with his guard, though. _Lorence upped his effort level to repel the attack, giving a strong riposte, almost sending Jon’s sword out of his hand. Lorence held his sword to Jon’s throat, and the boy let out a frustrated sigh.

“That was the best one yet.” Lorence said with a smile, patting the boy on the back, before leading him back to the group by the fire. “But you got too confident when you saw that opening.”

“I attacked an opening.” Jon said, clearly confused. “Isn’t that what you told me to do?”

“Quite right.” Lorence agreed, laughing a bit at the confusion increasing on his squire’s face. “_But_, you _only _attacked. No matter how clear victory _seems_, you need to be ready for anything. I made a quick riposte, and your guard wasn’t up in time. Even when attacking, always be on the defensive. Does that make sense?” _That lesson was one of father’s._

The boy looked at him thoughtfully, before nodding.

“Great!” Lorence exclaimed. “Let’s join the others. We’ll go over some of the noble houses on the ride tomorrow, so stay away from the wine.” Jon quickly covered up a grimace, causing Lorence to chuckle a bit. _He can’t be any worse at that than Humfrey was. Or still is._

They joined the retinue of Roxton guards around the fire. They ate their salted beef quietly, as not to interrupt a drunk Humfrey regaling the group with a story. 

“—she felt _amazing._” Humfrey was saying. _It’s the bloody Fowler story. _Lorence made sure to listen more attentively. _This never fails to make me laugh._ “Best cunt I’ve had in my life. Those bloody Dornish women, I swear. Anyway. You ever had cunt so good it makes you say her _full _name when you finish? Like first _and_ last? She was one of _those_. I finish, and I groan ‘_Jennelyn Fowler!’_, just like that. I’m regaining my breath, when the damn wench slaps me! Right across the face! Pulls down her dress, and storms away. ‘_What was that for?_’, I call after her. She turns around, looks me dead in the eye, and—-” he breaks off with a chuckle, trying to contain his laughter, before continuing.

“‘_My name is Jeyne._’, she says. ‘_Jennelyn is my twin sister._’” Humfrey said, laughing. “I’m all confused. ‘_I danced with you at the feast._’, I say. ‘_No._’, she says. ‘_You danced with my sister._’ I feel like an idiot, and so I say, ‘_I see it now. Your sister’s quite ugly._’ ‘_We look the exact same._’, she says. And so I tell her ‘_Exactly!_’”

The group of guards all burst into laughter, but Lorence only smiled. _Humf usually tells this when I’m drunker. It’s still funny, but I don’t remember him being this much of an arse in this story._ Lorence glanced at his squire, whose face was bright red, and Lorence didn’t think it was from the light from the fire. Jon also wore a small frown, but it disappeared when he caught Lorence’s eye. _He disapproves. He’s got a good head on his shoulders. A bit uptight, but that’s to be expected from Lord Stark’s get._

“Better get to bed, lads.” Lorence spoke up then. “If we leave early enough each day, we’ll be sleeping in featherbeds within a week.” He shot a look to Warron, who made sure to keep Humfrey steady while helping him to his tent. 

“I’ll stay up for a bit, if that’s alright.” Jon said from beside Lorence. 

“I’ll stay up with you.” Lorence said. _I wasn’t going to be going to sleep soon anyway._

“Staying warm?” Jon asked with a smile. Lorence barked a laugh.

“Warm enough.” Lorence agreed. “It wasn’t so bad after the first few nights.”

“It’s summer.” Jon scoffed. “You southerners and your whining.”

“I don’t _whine_.” Lorence protested with a smile. “Humfrey whines_._ I… _voice my disapproval._”

“You whine.” Jon corrected with a smile, that died slowly.

“You don’t approve of Humfrey’s story.” Lorence guessed. It wasn’t a question, but Jon nodded his agreement anyway. “He embellishes. I’ve heard him tell that story ten different ways. It’s true, but certain details are added and removed based on his audience. No need to take it so seriously, lad.”

“It’s dishonourable.” Jon argued. _Sigh._ “My father taught me better than that. He wouldn’t approve.”

“Approve?” Lorence asked with a brow raised. “Approve of what? Lying with a woman out of wedlock?” He gave Jon a pointed look, and the boy briefly clenched his jaw, but then tilted his head thoughtfully, and huffed out a small laugh. _At least he can appreciate irony._

“I don’t mean to anger you, lad.” Lorence said, just in case. “But it’s true.”

“I know.” Jon said. “It reminded me of how Theon Greyjoy talked. He spent nearly all his free time in the bloody brothel.” Lorence scoffed. _Ironborn._

“You didn’t like the Greyjoy?” Lorence asked in faux disbelief. Jon huffed out a small laugh. 

“I could’ve, maybe.” Jon mused. “But Theon heard the name _Snow_ and decided I was beneath him. He treated me with naught but contempt.”

“Like the circumstances of your birth are somehow your fault.” Lorence scoffed. At Jon’s questioning look, Lorence continued. “I know you might think it odd how accepting our group is of your status. It’s probably not what you’d expected.”

“No.” Jon agreed. “It’s not.”

“So many of the people I’ve met are so prickly about _status_.” Lorence said. “Highborn, lowborn, trueborn, bastard, heir, spare, it’s all a bit silly, really. I mean, for marriages and succession? Sure. But a few of my _southern compatriots_ refuse to even be in the presence of bastards, or even third and fourth sons.”

“Warron said that about you.” Jon said, surprising Lorence. “That you, of all people, wouldn’t care about such a thing.” _Damn Warron and his soft heart. He’s lucky he can look scary, because he’s a bloody softy. All a bandit would need to do is bring a kitten and the man would be completely incapacitated. Our whole party could be getting slaughtered and he’d be cooing at the damn thing._

“I am not the only trueborn son of Roxton.” Lorence said with reluctance. “I have a younger brother, named Luthor. He’s your age.”

“Okay…” Jon said, clearly not understanding the point.

“He’s…” Lorence was reluctant to say. _Would he get it?_ _Fuck it. He’s going to find out soon enough anyway. _“He’s simple.”

“You mean…”

“Yes.” Lorence snapped. “_That_ kind of simple. But he’s still my brother. So, you can see why I think that the circumstances of your birth don’t matter. Both you and my brother receive scorn based on how you were born. It’s ridiculous.”

“Oh.” Jon said, before shrugging. “Alright. But at least he’s still a trueborn son of House Roxton.” Lorence scoffed.

“Tell that to our septon.” Lorence said. “He offered to smother him in the crib because of his condition. ‘_To save House Roxton the shame._’, he said. My father ensured that his nose is still crooked to this day. Once, I even heard a handmaiden of some visiting house claim that he was a ‘_curse from the Seven._’ Luthor may be trueborn in the eyes of the law, but most view him as worse than a bastard.”

“My father speaks very highly of yours.” Jon said after a few seconds. “Based on how he reacted to what your septon said, I can see why.”

“My father is the best man I know.” Lorence agreed_. And he will be succeeded by a false knight and a ‘curse from the Seven.’ The gods are truly unjust. _“The bravest, too. In Robert’s Rebellion, he had his right arm cut off at the elbow, but slew the man who maimed him with his left.”

“Really?” Jon asked in awe.

“Really.” Lorence confirmed. Jon let out a small laugh. Lorence gave him a puzzled look.

“_Fear is a fool’s notion._” Jon said. “He lives up to your house words quite well.”

“That’s funny.” Lorence said with a chuckle. “Because he _loathes_ our house words. ‘_Impractical, arrogant, and silly._’ That’s what he called them. And I agree with him.”

“Why?”

“_Fear is a fool’s notion._” Lorence quoted. “So being afraid is foolish? I’d argue the opposite. Fear is natural. If you are truly not afraid of anything, you are either a fool, or mad.”

“Or a mad fool.” Jon suggested. Lorence smiled. _He’s a cheeky little shit when you can get him talking._

“My father would change our words in a heartbeat were there precedence to do so.” Lorence said. “He’s told me countless times what he prefers: ‘_Blood is thicker than water._’”

Jon had a confused look on his face.

“It means that the bond of family trounces a bond of any other kind.” Lorence explained. “There is nothing more important to my father than family.”

“That’s admirable.” Jon said, before a small smile spread across his face. “I left Winterfell with more family than when you’d arrived, I think.”

“Oh?” Lorence questioned with a smirk. “Did you happen upon a new cousin or sibling in the godswood? Perhaps behind the stables?” Jon shot him an exasperated look.

“No.” Jon said. “They were there the whole time.”

“In hiding then?”

“_No._” Jon said. “I’m talking about my sister, Sansa.”

“Is that the pretty, air-headed one?” Lorence asked, still smirking. “Or the mousy, loud one?”

“The eldest one— Wait, what?” 

Lorence laughed at the incredulous look on his squire’s face. “I’m sorry.” Lorence said, not sorry. “I’ll be serious.”

“Sansa is the eldest of my two sisters.” Jon said. “The one with the auburn hair.” _So, the pretty, air-headed one._

“She looks all Tully.” Lorence commented.

“Perhaps.” Jon agreed with a defiant look. “But she’s a Stark.” _Protective. I can appreciate that._

“What happened?”

Jon told him of the prank he _barely _aided in, and how he was punished the harshest _by far._ “I think that was when she realized.” Jon mused. “That nobody’s perfect, and that her mother’s example might not be the best to follow in _everything_.” Jon then talked of the conversation they had the day he left. “She’s promised to write me.” Jon said. “So we’ll see how it goes.”

“My father will leave any letters to you unopened.” Lorence assured him. “Like I said, he understands the importance of family.”

“My father is much the same, I think.” Jon mused. “He would agree with you on the fear thing, also.”

“Would he?”

Jon nodded. “He used to tell Robb and I that ‘_the only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid._’” 

_I wonder who told him that?_

“Really?” Lorence asked with a smirk. “Did your father ever mention who bestowed this great piece of wisdom unto him?”

“No…”

“My father told me the same thing.” Lorence said. “He’s been telling me that since I was a boy. Are you sure we don’t have the same father? Are you my long lost brother?”

Jon shoved him then, and the two both burst into laughter. The sky had long since turned black, and the stars had long since come out.

“It’s getting late.” Lorence said. “I’ve gotten used to waking up to a saddled horse and disassembled camp. You wouldn’t want to break your streak, would you?”

“Of course not, _ser_.” Jon said with a smirk. Lorence let out a laugh, and the boy made his way to his tent. Lorence’s smile didn’t go away.

_Seven Hells, _Lorence realized,_ I’ve grown fond of the boy._

. . .

“I bid you welcome to my humble home, good sers.” 

“My thanks, Ser Raymun.” Lorence responded with a smile. _He’s taking it well. _The rest of the Roxton party began unpacking. Lorence almost chuckled at their zeal. _I’ve never seen them move so fast._

Castle Darry was rather quaint. Lorence had intended on staying the night at the Crossroads Inn, across the Ruby Ford. _It’s not as if we wouldn’t find room._

But, he had run into an old friend.

“_Friend” is a very liberal use of the word. Like _Dorne_ liberal._

Tristan Ryger, former squire to Ser Raymun Darry, had been flirting with a _slightly_ too young, and noticeably uncomfortable serving girl, when he had noticed Humfrey and Lorence walk in to the inn.

. . .

“Ser Humfrey! Ser Lorence!”

“Ah, fuck’s sake.”

Lorence did a poor job of covering up his snort of laughter at Humfrey’s muttering. The laughter then turned into a grimace, when Lorence noticed who the source of the voice was. _Fuck’s sake, indeed._

The short, stout Tristan Ryger was making his way over to where the two knights had just walked in. He wasn’t swaying, per se, but he was on his way there judging by the flagon of wine in his hand. 

“I haven’t seen you two since that tourney in Cider Hall!” Tristan exclaimed jovially.

“Thank the gods for that.” Humfrey muttered under his breath.

“Tristan.” Lorence greeted kindly, elbowing Humfrey in the side. “How do you fare?”

“Still a squire, unfortunately.” Tristan griped good-naturedly, but Lorence could hear the annoyance in his tone. _Maybe if you could swing a sword for more than a minute without wheezing, you’d have no cause for annoyance._

“A shame.” Lorence said instead. “Are you still in service to Ser Raymun?”

“No.” Tristan said with a frown. “Still close with the family, but he’s informed me that he cannot have a squire that is two-and-twenty.” _I wonder why._

“I’m sure you’ll earn your spurs soon.” Lorence lied with a smile, turning to go outside to check on his squire.

“I was actually about to head to Darry.” Tristan blurted out. _Seven hells. Here we go._ “I’m sure Ser Raymun would love to house you. Which direction are you headed, anyway?”

“South. Back to Bandallon.” Lorence said.

“So it’s on the way, anyway!” Tristan exclaimed with a smile. “Ser Raymun would be pleased to house you! And feast you, as well! He’s got better food and beds than a bloody _inn_.” 

Lorence turned to Humfrey, whose shrug said ‘_Fuck it. Why not?’_ Lorence gave him one back. _I doubt Ser Raymun is even aware that his hospitality has been offered_, he thought with a small smirk. _The poor, poor man._

“Why not?”

. . .

“I’m sorry to impose, my lord.”

“It’s quite alright, ser.” Ser Raymun replied, clearly lying.

“I was invited by a Tristan Ryger?” Lorence elaborated, ensuring his face was the picture of innocence. “He mentioned being a squire? Or a house knight, perhaps? I’m afraid my memory is failing me on that small detail.” Ser Raymun’s responding sigh nearly made Lorence falter in his mummery to chuckle.

“Something like that.” Ser Raymun grumbled to himself quietly, before responding. “It’s no matter, ser. I trust you and your men are set up in the guest house?”

“Quite comfortably, my lord.” Lorence confirmed. He eyed his plate in suspicion. _They really do eat only fish in the Riverlands._ The main course of the feast was trout, swimming in a garlic and herb butter. _Enough butter can make anything edible._

Lorence and Humfrey ate at the high table in relative silence. Tristan was regaling the table with some tall tale that no one believed, and Ser Raymun appeared to be listening politely, but Lorence suspected that the man had been zoned out for the better part of the last two minutes. He took a look around the great hall, bewildered.

_House Darry are either very loyal, or very brave. Their stupidity is without question, however._

Hung across the great hall were banners emblazoned with the three headed dragon of House Targaryen, and portraits of many a Targaryen king, including Aegon the Conqueror, and Jaehaerys the Conciliator. _If the Fat King knew of these, he’d have Darry torn down stone by stone._

“Might I ask where you travel from, ser?” Ser Raymun asked after a few minutes.

“Winterfell.” Lorence responded.

“Whatever for?” Ser Raymun asked, a scowl now adorning his face. _Judging by his taste in decoration, he’s not the biggest fan of House Stark._

“My father arranged a squireship.” Lorence replied neutrally. “I have taken his baseborn son Jon Snow as my squire.”

“Oh? Not one from the body of my liege’s daughter?” Ser Raymun asked. His scowl had disappeared from his face. However, he did spit the word _liege_ out like an insect that had flown into his mouth.

“No, my lord.” Lorence confirmed, confused. 

“Hmm.” Ser Raymun responded with a smirk. “I’m honoured to feast him… the rest of you as well, of course.”

The confusion stopped in an instance, and Lorence felt like a fool. _Darry was one of House Targaryen’s lealest supporters during the rebellion. Hoster Tully rebelled for ambition. Of course Darry wouldn’t have the highest opinion of his liege. Not to mention that Ser Raymun lost his three older brothers to the fighting._

“Might I be introduced to the boy?” Ser Raymun asked. “I’d heard he was the very image of Lord Stark. The only of Stark’s sons to take after him.”

“If you wish.” Lorence acquiesced hesitantly. He signalled to Warron.

“Grab Jon from the squire’s table.” Lorence whispered to him. “For some fucking reason, Ser Raymun wants to meet him.” 

A minute later, Warron led a bemused Jon Snow to stand in front of the high table. His normally wild hair had been pulled back from his face, held in place by some string or tie, showing more of his face. Jon caught Lorence’s eye, but Lorence gave him a small shrug. _Just go along with it, lad. Sate the man’s curiosity._

“I present my squire,” Lorence said. “Jon Snow.”

“My lord.” Jon greeted politely with a bow.

“You’re the _honourable_ Eddard Stark’s bastard?” Ser Raymun asked, with no small amount of sarcasm. 

“That’s what they tell me, my lord.” Jon responded. Lorence narrowed his eyes at him in reprimand. _Watch the cheek, lad. _Ser Raymun wasn’t offended however, chuckling at the young squire’s sarcasm.

“Are you good with a sword, lad?” Ser Raymun asked. “Good with a lance?”

“Best sword in Winterfell.” Jon states proudly. “My brother Robb is the better jouster, but I beat him in sparring almost every time. Even Theon Greyjoy, my father’s ward, loses to me most of the time.”

“Be glad you don’t have Tully blood in you, lad.” Ser Raymun said with a smirk. “The less you fight like Edmure, the better.”

That got a laugh from the whole table, Jon included. _The Blackfish’s talent must have skipped a generation, then._

Lorence glanced over to Ser Raymun, expecting to see him smiling, only to see that his wine-flushed face had gone sheet-white, and he was staring at Jon, slack-jawed. The Lady Darry gave her husband a nudge, as if to snap him out of whatever stupor he’d fallen into. After about fifteen seconds of awkwardness, Ser Raymun blinked hard, then did a little shake of his head, seemingly barely composing himself, before dismissing the young squire.

_What the fuck was that?_

Jon turned to go back to the squire’s tables, but not before sending a confused look Lorence’s way. Lorence shrugged back at his squire. _I’m just as confused as you, lad._

The next ten minutes were tense, and unbearably awkward. Ser Raymun soon recovered from his odd spell, and had apologized for his behaviour. However, Lorence noticed that he continued to attempt to sneak looks down towards the squire’s tables.

“He knows that Snow’s got a cock, right?” Humf whispered to him, noticing Ser Raymun’s glances as well. “Are we going to need to have a few extra guards for the lad tonight?”

“I know you’re japing,” Lorence whispered back. “but I’m honestly considering it.”

“He’s Stark’s son, you said?” Ser Raymun’s voice interrupted. The chatter that had recommenced since Jon’s introduction died once again. “Eddard Stark’s?”

“Yes, my lord.” Lorence answered carefully. “Lord Stark’s baseborn son. Jon Snow.”

“Are you sure?”

_No, my lord. He’s the fucking crofter’s daughter. Of course, I’m sure._

“Yes, my lord.” Lorence drawled instead, unable to keep all the frustration from his tone_._ “_Quite_ sure. The boy even said so himself, should my word not be enough.” Lady Darry gave him a small apologetic look.

“As you say.” Ser Raymun said, still sounding doubtful. “He looks little like the Eddard Stark I remember.”

“Interesting.” Lorence said, doing his best to sound as disinterested as possible. “He looks _exactly_ like the Eddard Stark _I_ remember. And I saw him last not two weeks ago.”

“Oh, in the hair and eye colour, of course.” Ser Raymun argued. “But, I could’ve sworn…” he shook his head. “Never mind. He must take after his mother.” Ser Raymun insisted. “Did Stark mention her to you? Or to his bastard?”

“No, my lord, he didn’t.” Lorence said irritably. _Why is he so fixated on this?_ “It’s none of my business. She could be a whore, or the bloody Queen. I couldn’t care less.”

Ser Raymun seemed to finally take notice of the annoyance in Lorence’s voice, and halted his inquiry. _Fucking finally. What does a house of the Riverlands care about the Warden of the North’s bastard? He made it quite clear that he didn’t consider the boy’s presence an offence. _The way Darry had been looking at Jon hadn’t been the scornful displeasure one showed to an object of dishonour upon one’s liege lord. 

_He looked as if he’d seen a ghost._

. . .

Three weeks passed, and Lorence had nearly forgotten all about the awkward meal at Castle Darry. The sticky heat and wet terrain of the Riverlands soon faded into the warm, comfortable, reinvigorating summer heat of the Crownlands. 

Lorence felt a small amount of smug satisfaction at his squire’s discomfort. _The shoe’s on the other foot now. Serves him right. _The boy was constantly picking at his tunic, in some attempt to air himself out. His forehead constantly had a thin bead of sweat, and he was scowling even more so than usual. The boy kept his hair tied back, like he had at Darry. Jon had explained to Lorence, after, that a serving girl had offered him a small leather tie, so that he could keep his hair out of his face while eating. Once the weather started to heat up, Jon kept his hair like that constantly. 

_Ser Raymun might have been onto something._

Lorence hadn’t noticed it at the time, but Ser Raymun’s comments hadn’t come from nowhere. Now that Lorence could _really _see the boy’s face, he noticed many subtle differences in his and Lord Stark’s features. Where Lord Stark had a relatively plain face, Jon’s features seemed more… _refined._ They both had a long face, but Jon’s seemed to be polished to a sort of elegant sharpness, something almost feminine, which his father did not possess. And, now that Lorence was searching for differences, he also noted that Jon did not share a build with his father. He was slender, and lean, where Lord Stark was stocky and sturdy. 

Lorence hadn’t been lying when he’d said that the boy’s mother was of no importance to him. But once he’d heard Ser Raymun’s suspicions, the thought wouldn’t go away. It nagged and prodded him annoyingly, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. 

Lorence remembered how his father had been vague as to his reasons to having Jon squire for him. He remembered most how his father had seemed to know more than he let on. _Perhaps he will have answers._ Lorence put the thought to the back of his mind for the time being.

. . .

They were due to arrive at King’s Landing within the hour. _I hope the King is back._

When Lorence and the rest had passed through on the way to Winterfell, the King, Queen, and entire royal family had been absent. They had been away visiting Storm’s End, under some pretence of visiting the King’s ancestral home. Whether that was true or not, it mattered not to Lorence. _Ser Arys was away. That’s all I cared about._

It was a little after midday when they first passed through the Dragon Gate. The guard at the gate noted the quality of their finery, and informed them that the Hand was holding court, and would be taking petitions. _That tells me nothing._

Whether the King was present, or away, the Hand of the King was the one who ran the realm. When Lorence was squiring for Ser Arys, he couldn’t remember a single time that the King sat the Iron Throne, and took petitions. _Not once._ In fact, he could remember countless more times that he joined his knight outside the King’s chambers, trying not to laugh at the loud, _and obviously real_ moans coming from His Grace’s whore of the hour. _The Demon of the Trident. He could at least pretend to have some of the grace that his title insists he possesses._

Lorence turned to his squire, whose eyes were wide, and nose was wrinkled. He seemed to be both in awe of the city in front of him, and disgusted at the smell. _I was much the same, my first time._

“The songs forget to mention the smell.” Lorence said with a grin. “Nothing quite like it, is there?”

“There’s so many people.” Jon noted in awe.

“Hence the smell.” Lorence quipped. “Half a million people worth of _bodily odours._”

“_Half a million?_” Jon asked incredulously. “How do they all fit?”

Lorence huffed a small laugh. “Uncomfortably.”

They made their way east toward the Red Keep. Lorence kept shooting glances at his squire, all but ignoring his other companions. _Seeing all this for the first time is quite the experience._ Jon hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the Dragonpit, only looking away once they passed it. Their route also took them past Flea Bottom, which Jon could also not look away from. _For different reasons, no doubt._

When the Red Keep finally came into focus, Jon didn’t look all that impressed. Lorence looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I thought it’d be bigger, is all.” Jon confessed sheepishly. “It’s smaller than Winterfell.”

“You’ll think Bandallon a peasants keep, then.” Lorence drawled with a sardonic chuckle. “Do try not to weep in your sympathy for us poor urchins.” He and Jon shared a laugh.

They were let through the gates by the Lannister guards, and were welcomed by Lord Petyr Baelish. _He’s not my biggest fan. Nor am I his._

“Ser Lorence Roxton.” Lord Baelish drawled, slimy voice oozing from his mouth, false smile firmly in place. “What brings you to the Red Keep?” _We did this dance six weeks ago, Baelish. You know exactly why I’m here._

“Lord Baelish.” Lorence greeted from atop his horse. “Has the King returned from Storm’s End?”

“I’m afraid not.” Lord Baelish said. “His Grace has informed us that he will be home within the week. The Lord Hand will be quite happy to see you, I’m sure.”

“I’m grateful, my lord,” Lorence lied. “but that will not be necessary. Do give Lord Arryn my regards.” 

“Of course, ser.” Lord Baelish said. “Shall I have rooms prepared for you and your retinue?”

_Not a bloody chance. Not while _she’s _here._

“No, thank you, my lord. We’ll find an inn.”

“Are you sure?” Baelish asked with a smirk. “It’s been so long since you’ve feasted with us last. We all miss you terribly. Lady Merryweather most of all, I’m sure.”

_Fucking prick._

Lorence could feel the rage building within him, only equal in ferocity to the shame that bubbled up in turn. 

_He’s trying to get a rise out of you, _he reminded himself. _Don’t give the smarmy shit the satisfaction._

He did his best to school his features into a practiced blank expression, as to not betray his emotions. Judging by the widening of Baelish’s smirk, he wasn’t successful. 

Taking the loss on the chin, Lorence turned his horse around with naught but a glare at the smirking Master of Coin, to go back the way he came, the Roxton retinue following. 

He could feel the questioning looks on the faces of his men, Humfrey and Jon included, but chose to act as though nothing was amiss. 

_No one can know. Baelish knows, and that is already one person too many._

Memories of long black hair, smooth dark skin, and a sultry, exotic voice moaning all sorts of _unladylike_ things in his ear invaded his mind before he could stop himself. He closed his eyes, trying to force the thoughts away. _Great. Now instead of wallowing in self-loathing, I’m wallowing in self-loathing while _painfully_ hard._

Lorence subtly shifted in his saddle, in an attempt to make his _situation_ slightly less uncomfortable. He was unsuccessful. _Damn Taena and her perfect fucking arse. She’s ruined me._

_Naked Olenna Tyrell. Mother and Father fucking. That one time I caught Lysa Arryn breastfeeding in the corridor._

Like magic, his _situation_ softened, and he became far more comfortable. 

_Works every time._

With his baser thoughts thoroughly vanquished, he could focus on his unsuccessful attempt at visiting his former knight. He couldn’t help but be disappointed. He hadn’t seen Ser Arys in a year and a half, since the tourney held for Prince Joffrey’s penultimate nameday. Aside from his father and mother, there was nobody Lorence sought approval from more. His father did not bestow pride easily, ensuring every morsel was well earned. His mother was the opposite. She was too quick to praise, ensuring Lorence that he was right immediately, even when he knew he wasn’t. 

Ser Arys was a healthy balance of the two. He never gave praise he didn’t mean, but he tended to be easy to please. He’d let you know if you were doing something wrong, but made sure to bestow praise once the mistake was corrected. He became stricter and more difficult to please as Lorence got older, but that only made him work harder. _I’m taking a squire. I’m fraternizing with lords of great houses. I’m upholding to my knight’s vows, no matter the circumstances under which they were sworn. I’m doing well._

_Sometimes, all we need is someone to tell us that we’re doing well._

. . .

They stayed in an inn on Eel Alley, on Visenya’s Hill. _Vhagar’s Gullet. Odd name, but the food was good, and the beds were soft. _

They were out, and back on the Kingsroad just after sunrise the next morning. 

“I hope you all enjoyed the inn.” Lorence called to the men as they rode through the Kingswood. “Because you’ll not be seeing another bed until Highgarden.” 

He rolled his eyes at the frustrated groans the men gave.

“Why not Bitterbridge?” One of the men, _Aldon, maybe_, asked. A chorus of agreements came from the retinue. 

“Lorent Caswell is a right shit, that’s why.” Humfrey called back. “He still hasn’t forgiven Lorence and I for _humiliating _him, as he put it. There’s _no way_ he would let even one of us into his castle. Both of us? Fucking forget it.” That shut the group up.

“What happened?” Jon asked after a few minutes. “With Lord Caswell, I mean.”

“We were at a wedding last year in… Longtable, was it?” Humfrey started.

“Ashford.” Lorence corrected. “Lord Ashford’s heir was wedding a Selmy girl, if memory serves.”

“Right. Ashford.” Humfrey continued with a chuckle. “Caswell was going on like an arsehole about how he claimed a longsword from some _peasant blacksmith’s_ son, saying the lad was more fit for a hammer than a sword. The bloody blacksmith’s son picked up a hammer, and proceeded to beat the ever-loving piss out of Caswell. _An armed and anointed knight._ Beat senseless by a blacksmith’s hammer!” Humfrey finished, breaking off into laughter.

“I think Lorent expected us to take his side?” Lorence mused with a chuckle. “He humiliated himself by speaking of it in the first place. We just laughed our arses off.”

“Sounds like he had it coming.” Jon mused with a chuckle.

“Right you are, lad.” Humfrey proclaimed. “Hopefully you never have to deal with _Ser Hammersbane_. He’s a right cunt.”

“He hardly ever leaves Bitterbridge, anyway.” Lorence said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s no problem.”

They rode on, continuing the long trek to Highgarden.

_And after that, home._

…

Two weeks later, the high white walls of Highgarden came into view. The sun was setting, and there was no inn around for miles. _I may have done that on purpose. It’s not that I think they’ll turn us away, but considering the relationship between Mace Tyrell and my father, that wouldn’t exactly be an impossibility._

“Halt!”

They halted.

“Who goes there?”

“Ser Lorence of House Roxton, and Ser Humfrey of House Hightower.” Lorence called in his lordly voice. “We kindly request the hospitality of House Tyrell, if it is convenient.” 

The guard sent an urchin along with the message, and five minutes later, they were through the gates, and dismounting. Greeting them, was Lorence’s favourite Tyrell.

“Ser Garlan!”

“Ser Lorence. Ser Humfrey” Garlan Tyrell greeted with a smile. “On behalf of House Tyrell, I welcome you into our home.”

“My thanks, ser.” Lorence answered with a smile, before moving on to greet the lady to the Tyrell knight’s right. “Lady Leonette. As beautiful as ever.”

“My thanks, ser.” Lady Leonette responded, all courtesy. “There’s a feast in an hour. Rooms have been prepared for your retinue. We hope to see you there.”

“Doubtless we will be, my lady.” Humfrey said with a smirk. “If a beauty such as yourself will be there, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay away.”

Lorence cringed internally. _That’s one hell of a line. On a married lady, no less._

“Charmed.” Lady Leonette drawled disinterestedly, before being lead away by Ser Garlan. Lorence tried to hold his laughter in until the couple were out of earshot, but he failed quite miserably.

“You do know Ser Garlan is a better sword than _me_, right?” Lorence asked in between chuckles. “He would _wipe the floor_ with you. And you go flirting with his wife?”

“I was jesting.” Humfrey said grumpily. “It’s not my fault she has no sense of humour.”

“Maybe don’t sit so close to them tonight.” Lorence suggested, still laughing. “Just a suggestion.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

. . .

The feast was fit for Highgarden. Of that, there was little doubt.

There were five courses, each more decadent than the last. From slow-roasted veal, to to honeyed duck, to suckling pig, it seemed that there was no livestock animal left out. _At least they’re inclusive._

Lorence was sat at the high table, next to Ser Garlan, and and across from Lord Willas. Humfrey hadn’t taken Lorence’s advice, and was sat on Lorence’s right, directly across from Lady Leonette, who was glaring at the young Hightower knight. _Couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. Serves him right._ Ser Garlan seemed more than happy to let his wife handle herself, shooting Leonette amused grins anytime they made eye contact. _Those two are disgustingly sappy. Were I a young maiden, I’d be swooning. Since I’m not, vomiting will have to suffice._

Sat at the opposite end of the table, at the left hand of Lord Mace, was the only person Lorence was nervous about speaking to. _Lady Olenna Tyrell._ _The Queen of Thorns._ He’d heard all about Lady Olenna from his father. _“The true leader of the family,”_ Lord Moryn had said. _“I have more respect for her than anyone from that family.”_

_Judging from personal experience, she more than lives up to her title._

Lady Olenna had been shrewdly eyeing Lorence and Humfrey since they’d sat down. Usually, she was quick to speak her mind, but she’d not opened her mouth once throughout the beginning of the feast. _Thank the gods. _

“Leonette, love.” Lady Alerie spoke up from beside her husband. “Leave my baby brother be, please. I’m sure he deserves it, but I think he’s been properly chastised, yes?”

“Yes, mother.” Leonette complied, but not without one last glare.

“My thanks, sweet sister.” Humfrey drawled with a smirk. “I was beginning to fear for my safety.”

“What could you have possibly done now?” Lady Alerie asked with a huff.

“I was being my usual, charming self.” Humfrey said with a smile.

“_Charming_ is one way to put it, uncle.” Ser Garlan said with a smile.

“The _only_ way.” Humfrey amended with a smirk. That got a laugh from the table, and some of the awkward tension dissipated.

“How fares your lord father, Ser Lorence?” The young Lady Margaery asked kindly, ever the proper lady.

“He fares well, my lady.” Lorence answered. “I daresay a cripple has never run a castle so smoothly.” 

_Fuck._

He cringed as soon as he said it. _That was a poor choice of words. Especially around this family._

“Forgive—”

“There’s nothing to forgive, ser.” Willas said with a smile. “Though, when I become Lord of Highgarden, I hope to challenge him for that merit.”

“Then I pray my father’s claim goes unchallenged for many years then, my lord.” Lorence said, raising his glass toward a still seething Mace Tyrell. _Whether it was at the mention of my father, or reminding him of Willas being crippled, I know not. Though, it is probably a bit of both. _The Fat Flower’s fuchsia face lightened a tad at the toast, raising a glass back.

“To your health, my lord.” Lorence proposed. The toast was chorused by the table.

_Crisis averted._

The small talk picked back up, with no more hiccups, and accidental insults. Lorence learned that Loras Tyrell was still a squire for Lord Renly. He also learned, from Loras’ letters from Storm’s End, that the King and Queen were currently not on speaking terms, for whatever reason. _Not altogether unusual._

The feast carried on another hour, before Lord Tyrell decided to call it a night. Lorence and Humfrey did the polite thing, and waited for their hosts to take their leave. All but Lady Olenna and Lady Margaery left. 

“Finally.” Lady Olenna scoffed. “I was beginning to think Mace would feast until the hour of the wolf.”

“It speaks!” Lorence intoned with faux shock.

“Watch it, you.” Lady Olenna admonished, while failing to fight a smile. “I like you, but remember your manners.”

“Of course, my lady.” Lorence said with a smile. “My _sincerest_ apologies.”

Lady Olenna huffed. “Now that my oaf of a son has taken his leave, I would know why you two made the trek to _Winterfell_, of all bloody places.”

“I took Lord Stark’s baseborn son as my squire.” Lorence replied truthfully. _Olenna can sniff out a lie like a hound on a hunt._

“Ah, yes.” Lady Olenna huffed. “The _honourable_ Lord Stark’s wartime by-blow. Were there really no other options?”

“I did as my father bid, my lady.” Lorence replied.

“So your father is to blame for my confusion?” Lady Olenna asked. “Confusion is dangerous for a woman of my age. My health is ever fragile.”

“I’m sure that will hold up in a trial.” Lorence snarked.

“Why did your father bestow a Northern bastard upon you?” Lady Olenna asked, pointedly ignoring Lorence’s cheeky response. “Gods know there are enough trueborn sons to go around. Have you insulted him in some way? Is this a sort of punishment?”

“I don’t pretend to understand the deepest workings of my father’s brain.” Lorence replied neutrally. _That’ll piss her right off. There’s nothing that annoys Olenna more than vagueness._

True to form, Olenna huffed and fixed him a disbelieving stare. “Don’t play coy with me, boy.”

“Is being truthful _coy_, my lady?” Lorence asked with a smirk. “Because I have no idea why my father has bid me take the boy as a squire. All I know is that Lord Stark and my father were good friends. Perhaps it is a favour from one friend to another. I know not. And I care not. Jon Snow is my squire, and that is that. The intricacies matter not to me.”

“Might we meet the newest guest in our home?” Lady Margaery asked demurely. “I imagine Highgarden must come as a shock to someone from such a dreary place.”

“He will have retired for bed when Lord Mace took his leave.” Lorence deflected. _I do not need a repeat of Castle Darry._ “He’s not one for extravagant feasts. He’s his father’s son, in that regard.”

“Lord Stark wouldn’t know extravagance if it bit him in the arse.” Olenna muttered, prompting a well practiced, and believably scandalized _Grandmother!_ from Lady Margaery. _She’s only two-and-ten, and is already quite talented at playing the game. Olenna sees her granddaughter as her protégé, methinks._

“Is my interrogation over, my lady?” Lorence asked politely. Lady Olenna fixed him with a hard stare, holding eye contact for good ten seconds, before dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

“Fucking finally.” Humfrey muttered once out of earshot. “That woman scares me half to death.”

“Your help was much appreciated back there.” Lorence huffed sarcastically.

“Anything I would’ve said would’ve got you in more trouble.” Humfrey pointed out with a smile.

“True.” Lorence conceded. “Let’s just hope that Jon had a better night then we did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is admittedly kinda boring, seeing as it is literally just a long horse ride. Hopefully the dialogue, and continued development and exposition of Lorence's character makes it worthwhile. 
> 
> Also, I changed the summary, because the old one was kinda trash. I suck at writing summaries, so I just took a chunk from the text and called it a day.
> 
> Also, also, if anyone can spot the Rolly Duckfield allusion, you get a high five. (It's not very subtle, but I have high fives to go around.)
> 
> EDIT: I had this chapter up for a week before I realized that I had put Humfrey and Alerie as _aunt/nephew_, not _siblings_. My bad. It's fixed now.
> 
> The next chapter will be Jon III, which will be up at some point in the future.


	7. JON III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Settling in. And lots of introductions.

JON III

Jon awoke with a groan, and a pounding pain behind his eyes, and moved his pillow from beneath his head to cover his face, blocking out the light.

_“Only one cup.” Father always said. Now I see why._

He sat up, swinging his legs down to the floor. He rubbed the scum from his eyes, stifling another groan. _My fucking head is killing me._ He opened his eyes slowly, letting them get accustomed to the light pouring in from the window of the Highgarden guest room.

There was a flagon and cup on the small desk across the room. Jon suddenly became very aware of how dry his throat was. _Water sounds _very _nice, right about now. _He filled the glass near to the brim, before chugging it down quickly, the excess dripping down his chin.

The Arbor Gold had been flowing, the previous night. Jon had sat amongst the other squires, near the back of the hall, and had been the youngest among them. _Thank the gods for Lorence’s lessons on the houses of the Reach. I’d be completely lost. _When the one of oldest, a Woodwright lad of around five-and-ten, discovered that Jon had never been drunk, he aimed to put an end to his sobriety. _Portifer, I think his name was? I’m not sure how well my memory of last night’s events can be trusted._

The squires cheered him on for every cup of wine he knocked back. They told tales of cunt and combat, of battles and beddings, and Jon listened to them all with rapt attention. They were fine company. It had been the most fun he’d had since leaving Winterfell.

He’d expected to be called upon to present himself to the Tyrell family, as he had at Castle Darry, but no such invitation came. _I’m glad of it. I’ve already given one lord a mental breakdown. No need to repeat that with my future liege lord. _And so, any impression he received of the members of House Tyrell were second-hand. 

A Conklyn boy made it known that he felt Ser Garlan was the finest blade in the Reach, claiming to have witnessed him sparring against four men at once. That then prompted a debate, with some vouching for Ser Emmon Cuy, some for Baelor Brightsmile, and even one for Ser Tanton Fossoway. 

“What about Ser Lorence Roxton?” Jon put in. He knew nothing of the talents possessed by the knights put forward by the others, but he’d witnessed Lorence’s skill first hand, multiple times. _There’s no way all these others are better._

“I’ve never seen Ser Lorence spar.” Woodwright responded. “And he never competes in any melees, either. He can’t be that good, if he’s too scared to test his mettle against the Reach’s finest.”

“He beat my father quite handily.” Jon argued. “And my father was the one who slew Ser Arthur Dayne.”

“That was two-and-ten years past, though.” A Cobb bastard put in. “Now, I’ll wager your father’s joints sing louder than his steel does.”

That drew a laugh from the squires, as Jon scoffed, but made no further reply. Somewhere in his drink-addled mind he knew he should be defending his father more strongly, but he couldn’t bring himself to care all that much. In fact, he then surprised himself by laughing along with the jest. _Two months ago, I’d have scowled and fled the hall._

The Woodwright squire then claimed that Lady Margaery was the comliest maiden in the Seven Kingdoms, which prompted a series of agreements from the rest of the table. 

“Once I’m knighted, I’m going to swear myself to Highgarden.” Woodwright told the table, before continuing with a smirk. “Do you think your father will assign me to be her _personal guard_, Vyrwel? I might even let her _see my sword_, if you catch my meaning” That drew another laugh from the table, and Jon joined uncomfortably_. I’m not exactly a paragon of knowledge when it comes to this subject._

“I wouldn’t press your luck, Woodwright.” The Vyrwel boy, who’s father was the Highgarden captain of guards, Jon learned, said reproachfully. “Heard Lord Puff Fish is saving his precious little rose for the crown prince.”

“Do you know how busy a crown prince can be?” Woodwright shot back, still smirking. “Why, I’ve heard that their duties can leave them busy _all day._ I’d be more than willing to help Lady Margaery pass the time_._ Wouldn’t want such a pretty little thing getting lonely, would we?” Laughter arose once again, Jon joining in gladly. _Even _I _caught the innuendo there._

“Like she’d bed a man with a name like _Portifer._” The Cobb bastard snorted into his cup, and laughter erupted from the table, Jon howling along with them. 

The night carried on for a few more hours, mock calls of _Oh, Portifer! _and_ Portifer, yes!_ ringing about the hall, until Lord Tyrell took his leave. Jon had stumbled up to his guest chambers, hastily undressed, yanked out his hair tie, and threw himself face first onto the featherbed. 

. . .

The sun had come up all too soon.

_And now I pay the price for my carelessness._

He took advantage of the basin of water attached to his chamber wall, scrubbing off any grime from the night before. He was expected outside his knight’s chambers by sunrise, and was already late.

He prepared himself hastily, and made sure he had all of his belongings from the room on his person, before setting out to find Lorence’s chambers. 

He knocked once he got there, and the door opened to find a fully dressed Lorence staring down at him. 

“Finally got your lazy arse out of bed, did you?” Lorence asked with a smirk.

“I’m sorry, ser.” Jon rushed to apologize, head still pounding. “It won’t happen again, I swear it.”

Lorence chuckled, and gave Jon’s hair a ruffle, before narrowing his eyes at him.

“_It better not!_” Lorence said, voice _much_ louder than before. Jon winced at the volume, as it made his head start to pound all the more painfully. Lorence laughed openly at Jon’s reaction.

“Had a bit too much wine last night, did we?” Lorence asked with a knowing smile, emerging from his chamber, and began the trek down to the stables.

“I’m sorry.” Jon repeated, his hand holding his head. _I’m never drinking again._

“That’s quite the vow.” Lorence snarked. _I said that out loud, didn’t I? _“Perhaps wait until you get a bit older, and start gallivanting about with the fairer sex, before swearing off the drink. A little bit of summerwine goes a long way, in that regard.”

“What would I do without your wisdom?” Jon grumbled back at him. They turned a corner, and Jon groaned when the sunlight hit his eyes.

“_My wisdom_, is it?” Lorence drawled in amusement. “There’s a first time for everything I suppose.”

“Really?” Jon drawled back, playing along. “I’d say you’ve wisdom spewing out your ears. I almost mistook you for a maester.”

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended by the comparison.” Lorence responded with a chuckle. Jon laughed back, as they came upon the stables.

“What’s got you lot all giggly?”

Jon and Lorence turned to see Ser Humfrey saddling his own horse, fixing them with a tired smile.

“My valiant squire here reckons I could be a maester.” Lorence responded. 

“Almost became one myself.” Ser Humfrey responded, stifling a yawn. “Most maesters see more of the cunt of their Lady than her husband does.” Lorence erupted in laughter, that Jon joined in with, but stopped with another groan, and a hand to his eyes. _It’s so loud. And bright. And everything hurts. Wine is the worst._

“Sorry to put that image in your head, lad.” Ser Humfrey said with a chuckle, likely misinterpreting the reason for Jon’s reaction. “Though, Lady Stark isn’t _your_ mother, is she? Free game, I say…”

Jon groaned.

“I mean, she’s in her _prime_…”

“_Stop._ Please.”

Ser Humfrey exploded in laughter, and only laughed louder once receiving a clout on the head from Lorence. 

“Are you ready, you insufferable arse?” Lorence asked after Ser Humfrey’s laughter ceased.

“Not everyone has such a dutiful squire, Roxton.” Ser Humfrey droned back.

“I’ve lucked out in that department, haven’t I?” Lorence answered, but not before giving Jon a pointed look. Jon understood the meaning immediately.

_While he might’ve brushed off my being late this morning, he won’t tolerate it again._

. . .

They were three days off from Bandallon, and an anxiety that Jon had not expected had overcome him. _This will be my home for the foreseeable future. Lorence and Ser Humfrey like me, but what about everyone else? What if they hate me for what I am?_

He then realized that this anxiety was not _new_, in any sense. _Old habits die hard, I suppose._ Whenever his old insecurities reared their ugly heads, Jon repeated the words of Warron Tallflowers in his head. 

_Words are wind. They only hurt you if you let them. _

A few of the squires at Highgarden had tried to rib Jon on his bastard status, but Jon had acted indifferent to their teasing, and they ceased quite quickly. He compared this in his head to when Theon would tease him at Winterfell, and Jon would react by sulking, or lashing out. Reacting would only make the teasing worse. _It’s the reaction that they want. Give them nothing to be entertained by, and they lose interest pretty quickly._

“What are we brooding about today, hmm?”

Jon turned his head, seeing Lorence pull his horse up next to Jon’s, the two riding side by side.

“Nothing important.” Jon deflected. Lorence clearly didn’t believe him.

“Do you think you could beat Ser Emmon Cuy in a spar?” Jon blurted out, hoping to stop an inquiry before it began.

“Ser Emmon Cuy?” Lorence asked, clearly taken aback by the abrupt change in topic. “I’ve beaten him in the past. We’ve only sparred a few times, but I’ve won more than I’ve lost.”

“Ser Tanton Fossoway?”

“I’ve never sparred with Ser Tanton.” Lorence answered slowly, his eyes narrowing towards Jon now. “But Ser Emmon has beaten Ser Tanton in every melee I’ve seen them in. They often find themselves fighting one another. Some sort of friendly rivalry, I presume. Why are you asking?”

“What about Ser Baelor Hightower?” Jon asked, ignoring Lorence’s inquiry.

“I’ve sparred with him more than a few times, and I’ve won more than I’ve lost.” Lorence answered, getting a little frustrated. “Where’s this coming from?”

_I’d better come clean._

“Just a conversation, at Highgarden.” Jon answered. “The squires I was sitting with were debating the best swords in the Reach, and I’d vouched for you, remembering how easily you beat my father.”

“Kind of you.” Lorence snarked, but Jon noticed the surprised, and almost touched smile he tried to suppress.

“But they said that you’ve never even competed in a melee.” Jon said, before continuing hesitantly, not wanting to offend. “Someone even said that you can’t be _that good_, because you’re too scared to test your mettle against the Reach’s finest.”

Jon wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he expected. An offended scoff, perhaps, or demanding Jon tell him who spoke such vile lies. But Lorence throwing his head back and laughing loudly was _not_ one of them.

“If only that were the truth.” Lorence said with another small chuckle. “The real truth far less interesting. I’ve no desire for the glory that comes with being a famed tourney knight, and so I’ve never tried.”

“Never once?”

“I won a few squire’s melees in Old Oak, before the Greyjoy Rebellion.” Lorence said. “But in King’s Landing, I always found an excuse to not enter in one of the King’s many tourneys. I was never a great jouster, and the men who would fight in the melees were always _much_ larger than I was in my younger days. And the type of attention the winners would receive always looked overwhelming. It never interested me. I’d much rather watch Humfrey lose, than participate myself.”

“Oh.” Jon said, a little disappointed. “Could you beat Ser Garlan Tyrell?”

“Back to this, are we?” Lorence asked with a smirk. “Ser Garlan is the only man in the Reach I believe I would lose to more often than not. I consider Ser Garlan a friend, and I would name him the best blade in the Reach, without a doubt. He shares my opinion on glory, as well. You’ll find him competing in as many tourneys as I do.”

“How does everyone know how good Ser Garlan is, but not how good you are?” Jon asked, genuinely curious. Lorence smirked in response.

“I’m sure the Tyrell family has methods of ensuring that word of his prowess gets out.” Lorence said vaguely. Jon felt no small amount of confusion at Lorence’s vagueness, but decided to let it go. There was one thing he couldn’t quite understand, however.

“You’ve truly _never_ wanted to try your hand at a tourney?” Jon asked incredulously, again. “Never once?”

“I’ve pondered it, a few times.” Lorence responded with an amused huff. “But not enough to actually go through with it.” 

“First chance I get, I’m entering a melee.” Jon professed. “The North has no tourneys. I’ve always wanted to compete in one.”

“You’ll get your chance, lad.” Lorence chuckled, clearly amused at Jon’s zeal. “Perhaps wait a few years before you go challenging grown men. The glory will still be there when you’re a few years older. Wait until you’ve grown a few hairs on your chest.”

“You mentioned a squire’s melee, though?”

“Those are rare.” Lorence admitted, and Jon’s face fell, but Lorence continued. “Don’t get all sulky on me, lad. You didn’t let me finish. Lord Tyrell’s youngest is a squire himself, to the Lord of Storm’s End. You can bet your purse that Mace will give his boy every opportunity to earnfame and fortune. If Highgarden’s next tourney doesn’t have a squire’s melee, I’d be astonished.” 

Jon was in a much better mood after that.

_Glory doesn’t sound so bad, Lorence,_ Jon thought with a hopeful smile. _It would be nice to be known for something other than who your mother _isn’t.

. . .

The Reach had a fresh, almost perfumed scent that Jon was finding he didn’t mind. He supposed it couldn’t be helped, what with the endless fields of roses, tulips, and countless other flowers that he couldn’t name, in a vast assortment of colours. 

It could get a tad stifling at times, and he often found himself yearning for the fresh, almost _untainted_ air of the North. A deep breath of Northern air would chill your insides in the most refreshing way, leaving you comfortable and alert. _Though that may just be the homesickness speaking. I’m sure the Reachmen feel the same about their home._

But Jon wasn’t one to wax poetic about what different scents meant to different people, and so he kept his thoughts to himself.

But it was his acuteness to the Reach’s own signature ambience that made the subtle change in scent all the more apparent, the closer they got to their destination.

_If salt had a smell, I would swear upon a weirwood that I smell it now._

No one was paying him any attention at the moment, which he was glad for. _I probably look like a fool, sniffing the air. The men are like to mistake me for a mutt._

Jon was rooted out of his thoughts by Lorence’s loud call.

“Can you smell it, lads?” Lorence called from the front of the order, where he was riding with Ser Humfrey and Warron Tallflowers. “Bandallon calls! I reckon we’ll be in our beds by nightfall!”

A chorus of happy agreements arose from the men, and Jon’s anxiety returned.

_My new home. By nightfall. _

He rode up along Lorence’s right side, doing his best to look as inconspicuous as possible. 

But, as usual, Lorence saw straight through him.

“No need to be nervous, Jon. They’ll all love you.” Lorence told him warmly, before smirking. “You’ll be a ray of sulky darkness to their sunshine.”

His tension dissipated a bit, and he cracked a smile at Lorence’s teasing.

“_They._” Jon muttered, before turning to Lorence. “Could you tell me a bit about the household? You haven’t mentioned any besides your brother and father.”

Lorence gave him a smile. “I’d wanted you to make your own impressions, before listening to my opinions. It would be good practice for when you meet other nobles.”

“Even still?”

“I’ll tell you their names, and their titles.” Lorence allowed. “But I want you to be your own judge of character, alright? It’s a good skill to possess. Trust me.”

Jon nodded, and Lorence began.

“You have my father, Lord Moryn Roxton; the lord of Bandallon. My brother Luthor, who you know of already. My mother is Lady Clarice Roxton, née Osgrey; the Lady of Bandallon. Her uncle, Ser Unwin Osgrey, is our master of arms, and stand-by castellan, if need be. Our steward is Eddison Fessett. His younger brother Hosman is our kennelmaster. Our captain of the guards is Warron’s father, Ser Wilbur Tallflowers. Warron’s younger brother Aubrey is a guard as well. Our blacksmith is a Qohorik man by the name of Valko. He’s also our tanner, cobbler, saddlesmith, our goldsmith _and_ our silversmith. A real factotum, that one. Our maester’s name is Toman, and our Septon’s name is Lorean. They all have their respective families and what not, as well.” 

_Wow._

Jon knew he shouldn’t be overwhelmed by all the information, seeing as Winterfell had it’s own equivalents to all of the positions Lorence described. But Jon had known Winterfell’s workers all his life, and had come to see them as synonymous with the positions they held. He had no doubt that he would slip up, and accidentally call the kennelmaster Farlen, or the blacksmith Mikken. _Though, Bandallon’s blacksmith does a lot more than Mikken ever did._

“Are there any more?” Jon asked, feigning exasperation.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Lorence exclaimed. _Even more names to remember. Lucky me._ “Humf’s squire’s name is Rickard Tyrell. He left him behind when we went North. Rick’s a few years older than you.”

“Ser Humfrey’s squire is a _Tyrell?_” Jon asked incredulously. _The only Tyrell squire I know is in service to the Lord of Storm’s End. How did a fourth son like Ser Humfrey end up with a Tyrell?_

“Not _that_ kind of Tyrell, lad.” Ser Humfrey chimed in from Lorence’s left. “He’s a rose from lower on the bush, if you take my meaning. Fifty Tyrells would have to die before Rick would get his hands on Highgarden. You’d think that’d temper his ego, but alas…”

“Did you not hear me when I said I was going to let Jon make his own judgements?” Lorence asked in exasperation.

“I might’ve, but I’d never miss an opportunity to slander my squire’s good name.” Humfrey returned with a smirk. “Besides, his hands quiver something fierce when you remind him of that. Don’t keep him in check and he’ll have you thinking he’s the heir to bloody Highgarden.”

Lorence let out a breath, that was some queer combination of a huff, a sigh, and a laugh. _I have no idea what that was, but I agree with the sentiment. _Lorence gave Ser Humfrey a soft punch on the arm, and a comfortable silence took hold.

A gust of wind picked up, bringing with it the queer salty scent Jon had noticed earlier. As it began to fade once more, Jon began sniffing the air again, trying to catch it again.

“You smell it?” Lorence asked him. “The smell of home is always a bit intoxicating.”

“What is it?” Jon asked, thoroughly perplexed. “It smells almost… _salty_. But salt doesn’t have a smell.” Lorence and Humfrey shared a look, and then a laugh, and Jon’s face heated in embarrassment.

“It’s the smell of the sea, lad.” Lorence told him. “Bandallon is on a cliff, and overlooks the Sunset Sea. To Roxtons, the smell of the sea is important. It means home. It means safety. It means _family_. The smell of the sea is a good omen. When I was a boy, my father used to tell me that _if I woke up and smelt the sea, life was as good as can be_.” he finished, in a little sing-song voice, like a handmaiden might use in a nursery.

“Are you good sailors, then?” Jon asked, genuinely curious. “Since you’re so close to the sea, and all.”

“Gods, no.” Lorence huffed. “We have a small port that sticks out into the sea, for trade and all, but that’s it. Roxtons have always been best a-horse and on foot. I know my way around a ship enough not to get seasick, but I’d be hopeless at sailing one. We haven’t even got a fleet.”

“What if pirates attack from the sea?” Jon asked, aghast. “Or Ironborn?”

“Ironborn don’t come this far south.” Lorence said, waving his hand in a dismissive manner. “And pirates that _aren’t _Ironborn are few and far between on the Sunset Sea. If they do exist at all, they’d be much wiser to assault one of the richer ports along the Westerlands, or even Seagard. More value for the risk, I’d wager. There’s never been a single raid in my lifetime on our port.”

Jon nodded, doing his best to digest all the new information. The retinue rode on, and came over a tall hill. In the distance, Jon could make out a castle, with a few tall towers, and light grey walls. Beyond that, the sun could be seen in the sky, a few hours from setting beyond the endless blue water.

Lorence gave a content sigh from Jon’s left, likely feeling relief. Jon wasn’t sure what to think.

_Bandallon awaits._

. . .

The sky was aflame with the colours of susnset when they entered through the main gates, and the walls cast long shadows across the courtyard. _Not a peasants keep, per se_. The walls rose to about half the height on Winterfell’s inner wall, perhaps fifty feet high if Jon had to guess. _Only one layer, as well._ The size of the castle was also incomparable, as well. While Winterfell spanned several acres all in all, based on what Jon’s seen, Bandallon couldn’t be more than a few acres in total.

The men around him dismounting from their horses snapped Jon out of his perusal, and he followed their example. The reigns were immediately taken out of his hands by an eager stable boy, who thanked him with a _milord_. Jon immediately went to correct him, but the boy had already taken off, horse in tow. 

The guards began dispersing, and Jon took his place behind and to the side of Lorence. He sized up the group lined up to meet them. There were three people waiting. He took them in right to left, moving from least intimidating to most.

First was a boy Jon’s age, who was smiling widely. He was of a height with Jon, but much stockier. He was blonde of hair, and brown of eye, just like the woman next to him. Jon noticed other things as well, of course. The boy had slanted eyes, a short neck, and a flat nose. If Jon hadn’t known better, he’d have thought the boy related to Hodor. _Luthor Roxton. Lorence’s brother. _

Next was the woman. She was slight of build, and shared her hair and eyes with Luthor. She had a soft smile on her face, as she took in their group. It was a look Jon had seen many a time on Lady Stark, when she watched her children. It was the look of a loving mother. Jon felt a small pang in his chest when he made the comparison. _Lady Clarice Roxton. Lorence’s lady mother._

Last was a large man, not quite as tall as Lorence, but more stout. He had a body shape not unlike Ser Rodrik. _A warrior of yesterday_, Ser Rodrik would’ve said. He had greying brown hair, and Lorence’s blue eyes. But, most strikingly, he was without a right arm from the elbow down. _Lord Moryn Roxton. Lorence’s lord father, and lord of the castle._

And, while all in the courtyard looked to their returning heir, Lord Moryn’s eyes had not left Jon’s. He was staring at Jon intently, as though searching for something in his face. 

Jon shifted uncomfortably at the attention. _He must be looking for my father in my face, _Jon surmised. _Father did mention something about them being old friends._

Jon looked to his knight, who had the largest smile on his face. He’d knelt down, and opened his arms, and Luthor wrenched free of his mother’s hold, and barrelled into Lorence’s arms, giving his older brother a fierce embrace. Lorence returned it just as fiercely.

The two brothers spoke in hushed tones to each other, and then Lorence threw his head back and laughed at something Luthor had said. He got up, and gave Luthor’s blonde hair a ruffle. Luthor then made his way over to Ser Humfrey, and gave him a hug of his own. Ser Humfrey gave a surprised _oof_, but returned the boy’s hug, a tad awkwardly. Luthor then made his way over to Jon and gave him a questioning look.

“Are you the squire, from the North?” Luthor asked, big eyes all curiosity.

“Aye.” Jon answered. There was a short awkward pause, and Jon offered his hand. “Jon Snow, my lord.”

Luthor suddenly adopted a very serious look, and shook Jon’ s hand gravely. “Luthor of the House Roxton. I am pleased to make your ac— acqu—, acqua—” He turned to his older brother, “What’s the word, Lor?”

“_Acquaintance_.” Lorence told him with an indulgent smile, sounding out each syllable. “You’ve been practicing your courtesies, I see.”

“I sure have!” Luthor exclaimed, smiling once more, completely forgetting about Jon. “Maester Toman says I’m doing better!”

“That you are, little brother.” Lorence agreed, ruffling his hair once more. “Come, let’s greet mother and father.” Luthor eagerly led them the twenty remaining feet to the where Lord and Lady of Bandallon stood.

“Mother.” Lorence greeted, giving his mother a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Lady Clarice gave her son a pat on the cheek as he released her. That pang in Jon’s chest returned. _Get it together_, Jon chastised himself. _You’re nearly a man grown. The time to cry over a mother you’ve never met was years ago._

Lorence then made his way over to his father. He put his right hand out for a handshake, and laughed when his father shot him a mock glare. Lord Moryn pulled his son into an quick embrace, and gave him a once-over after releasing him. Ser Humfrey then greeted the two warmly, and it was finally Jon's turn.

Lorence motioned for Jon to approach. Lord Moryn had resumed his intense perusal of Jon’s face, causing him to hesitate slightly, in his approach. Lord Moryn clearly noticed Jon’s discomfort, and halted his scrutiny, offering him a small smile of encouragement.

“Father, mother,” Lorence said, placing a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “I present my squire. Jon Snow of Winterfell.”

“My lord, my lady.” Jon greeted with a bow to both. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

“Well met, Jon Snow.” Lord Moryn greeted warmly. “You look so much like your father, lad.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Jon said, ducking his head, faced flushed from embarrassment, as was his usual response when such a compliment was given.

“We are delighted to have you in our home.” Lady Clarice said, all courtesy, before waving a slender, middle aged man foreward. “Eddison here will show you to your chambers, and we shall commence supper in a half an hour. Do inform him if your furnishings are not suitable.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Jon responded. Lady Clarice gave him a nod, and turned back towards what Jon assumed was the Great Keep. Luthor followed, all but dragging Lorence along with him. Lorence looked back to Jon with an apologetic smile.

“Follow me, young man.” Jon’s escort, _Eddison, I think_, said before stalking off in another direction. 

Jon jogged to catch up, flipping through the mental catalogue he had tried to make when Lorence had fired off the household. _Eddison… Eddison… the steward, Eddison? Eddison Fessett?_

“You’re Eddison Fessett, right?” Jon asked as he caught up the man. “Bandallon’s steward?”

“Quite right.” Fessett responded, sounding amused. “I manage the household staff, ensuring that each and every servant and maid knows exactly where to be, and at what time, among other things. Ser Lorence has spoken of me?”

“Only your name and title.” Jon responded. “I asked about the household on the ride south.” _And I know what a bloody steward does. I was raised in a castle five times the size of this one._ _Git._

“Your preparation is commendable.” Fessett drawled condescendingly, and silence reigned. 

_Lorence wanted me to make my own opinions? Okay. The steward is a prick. _

They arrived at Jon’s chambers, but Fessett stopped Jon before opening the door. 

“A servant will be by at midday to change sheets, and collect clothing to be laundered.” Fessett said, patronizing smile still in place. “However, it is not a servant’s job to clean up your mess. Do try not to make their jobs too difficult, hmm?”

He was walking away before Jon had a chance to respond. Jon rolled his eyes, and entered his chamber.

_All for me?_

It was at _least_ three times bigger than his chamber at Winterfell. At Winterfell, Jon’s chambers were among some of the higher paid servants. They were by no means a broom cupboard, but he knew very well how much smaller they were compared to his siblings’. 

In Bandallon, he was housed in the Guest Keep. “For people of prominence,” Ser Humfrey had told him on the ride. “My rooms will be a floor above your own.” 

The room was spacious, with a large bed dividing the east wall. There was a desk along the north wall, and a large closet, dresser, and bookshelf along the south. The west wall had four decorative windows, which overlooked what looked like a training yard, with racks of swords and lances bordering a tiltyard and a melee field. Beyond the castle walls, Jon could see the sun set over the Sunset sea.

The bed frame and furniture were all well aged, but well crafted out of mahogany. Jon almost chuckled to himself as he traced the intricate designs of the headboard with his finger. _These were bought to satisfy guests with a much finer taste than mine own._ There were even fresh candles on the bedside tables and desk, should Jon desire any late night reading or writing. _And they thought I might disapprove? Or find it bloody _lacking_? Not in a thousand years._

Jon figured he’d have another quarter hour before he would be expected in the Great Hall. He decided to use the time to freshen up as much as possible. There was no time for a bath to be requested, and so he used the water basin beside his bed to scrub off as much of the grime and sweat he’d accumulated on the day’s ride as he could. With his hands busy, but mind idle, he decided to ponder over the people of the castle that he’d met so far. 

Eddison Fessett was clearly a proud, preening man who thought far too much of himself, and of his position. _Someone used to looking down on those around him. _

Lady Clarice Roxton had shown him a mask of decorum. Jon knew not what to think of her yet. _She’d said all the proper things, then took off. Father is Lord Moryn’s old friend, not hers. It is entirely possible she does not approve of me._

Luthor Roxton was a sweet boy. He may share Jon’s age, and height, but his mind was that of a small child. _Bran is likely farther along mentally than Luthor. But he’s hard not to like. A fellow misfit._

Lord Moryn Roxton was an enigma. One moment, he was staring at Jon like he was trying to memorize his features down to the nostril, and the next he was speaking to him with warmth and familiarity. _He radiates strength, and commands respect. I understand why Father is so fond of him. But he confuses me._

A knock on the door broke him out of his contemplations. Jon threw his washcloth into the laundry basket, dried off, and tugged on his tunic. 

It was time for the feast.

. . .

Jon was seated amongst the squires, once more. There were far less than Highgarden however. The only other occupant of the squire’s table was a squire perhaps two or three years older than Jon. He was thin, with a handsome face, ash-blonde hair, and hazel eyes. He seemed to startle as Jon sat, as he was too engrossed in something off in the distance. 

“Jon Snow.” Jon introduced himself, offering his hand. The squire stared at Jon, for just a second, before shaking the offered hand. “Ser Lorence’s squire.”

“Rickard Tyrell.” The squire introduced, clearly preening at his own family name. _Ser Humfrey’s infamous squire._ “I squire for Ser Humfrey.”

“Well met.” Jon said with a smile, purposely leaving out the typical _my lord_ that those of lesser status were supposed to use when addressing highborn. _It doesn’t matter whether they’re actually a lord, or not. It’s a term of deferment. We’re both squires. There’s no need for deferment._

Rickard’s smile twitched a bit, but he continued on as if naught was amiss. _Smooth_. 

“It’s good to finally have a fellow squire ‘round here.” Rickard proclaimed, giving what Jon supposed was his attempt at a winning smile. “I’m sure that we shall become great friends, Jon Snow.”

“We’ve only just met.” Jon responded playfully, unsure what to say._His words scream kindness and friendship, but there’s something off about it._

“Our knights are the best of friends.” Rickard proclaimed with another smile. “Why shouldn’t we be the same?”

_This does not match at all with the Rickard Tyrell I know by reputation. Let’s see where he’s going with this._

“I see no reason why not, either.” Jon asked, giving Rickard a smile. “Tell me about your family, Rickard. Despite stopping at Highgarden, I’ve never spoken to a Tyrell.”

“My family?” Rickard asked, seeming surprised, but only for a moment. “Oh yes, of course.”

He launched into a whole soliloquy, about the honour and valour of House Tyrell, speaking of all manor of past achievements and glories, and of the beauty and splendour of Highgarden. Jon was barely paying attention.

“I was speaking with some of Highgarden’s squires when we stopped there.” Jon began conversationally, once Rickard had finished waxing poetic about Highgarden’s cisterns, or stables, or something along those lines. “They spoke much of the beauty and grace of Lady Margaery.” _If speaking of cuckolding the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms is synonymous with her “beauty and grace.”_

“Lady Margaery is the fairest maiden in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms.” Rickard informed him, proudly. _I have yet to see him not do something proudly. _

“What’s she like?”

That faltered him a bit. _Show me your true colours._

“I’m sorry?”

“What’s she like?” Jon asked again. “You’re her family, aren’t you? Do you not know her?”

Rickard’s smile was gone, now. There was a tick in his jaw that hadn’t been present before. Jon felt a bit bad about what he was about to do. _I’ve been teased about my place in my family since before I can remember. Oh, well. Time to go in for the kill. _

“Oh, forgive me.” Jon said, chuckling. “I remember something Ser Humfrey told me. He called you a _rose from lower on the bush_, or something like that. My mistake.”

“And what would you know about it, bastard?” Rickard spat, all previous pretence gone, and clearly without thinking, because once he realized what he’d said, he got up, and strode from the feast. _There you are. I didn’t listen to Lorence and Humfrey complain about you for all those weeks on the road, to suddenly ignore what I’d been told and become friends._

As if summoned from his thoughts, Ser Humfrey came strolling down to the table, brow furrowed.

“Where’s Rick?” Ser Humfrey asked.

“He left.” Jon said through a mouthful of glazed duck. Ser Humfrey gave him a pointed look. Jon rolled his eyes back at the Hightower knight. “I was only taking your advice.” 

They shared a laugh together, and Ser Humfrey went off in search of his squire.

. . .

Jon was outside his knight’s door, ready for his first day in the castle, come sunrise. _I’ve got to prove my punctuality, after Highgarden._ When Lorence opened his door, ready for the day, he gave Jon a smile.

“I thought we’d start today by getting to know the castle a bit.” Lorence told him as they walked down the corridor. “I’ll give you a brief tour, and introduce you to some of the household.”

“Do I have to see the steward again?” Jon asked without thinking. _It’s the first day, and you’re already insulting people. Get it together, Snow._

“No.” Lorence assured around a laugh. “At least, I bloody hope not. Bit of a git, isn’t he?”

Jon and Lorence exited the Great Keep chuckling, and came upon the tilt yards. Ser Humfrey was laughing with a shorter, muscular, grey haired, bearded man with a greatsword strapped to his back on the sidelines, while Rickard rode a lance against a quintain. When the two noticed their presence, the older man grinned at them.

“Look at the swagger he walks with!” The man shouted in his hoarse voice. “When was the last time you were properly thrashed, nephew? I could beat you into the ground any day!”

Lorence laughed from beside Jon, and they approached the two men. “I doubt that, nuncle.” Lorence shot back. “Are you going to fight me with a sword in one hand, and a walking stick in the other?” The older man let out a deep belly chuckle.

“Ah, but the cane is the most dangerous of my weapons, my young lord.” The older knight intoned. “It is because it is unexpected. And what did I always tell you?”

“Never do what your opponent expects you to do.” Lorence and Humfrey parroted.

“Quite right.” The old knight agreed, before shifting his gaze to Jon. “Is this the fresh meat, then?”

“Jon Snow, ser.” Jon introduced quickly, intimidated by the old knight’s gaze, voice cracking embarrassingly. The old man held his stare for a few seconds, before breaking into an amused smile.

“I’m only messin’ with you, lad.” The old knight assured him with a pat on his back. “I’m Ser Unwin Osgrey, grand-uncle to your poor excuse of a knight.” Jon laughed at the jest, but noticed that, while Lorence had also laughed, he had stiffened considerably. _Odd_.

“I’m also the master-at-arms of this castle.” Ser Unwin proclaimed. “Since Lorence can’t joust worth a damn, I’ll be takin’ over those lessons.” 

“And _I’ll _finally have someone to ride against.” Rickard Tyrell said, approaching on his horse.

“Rick!” Lorence said, sounding _overjoyed_ to see him. “I didn’t catch you last night. Heard you’d stormed off early.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised at your squire’s lack of manners, Roxton.” Rickard spat, after glaring at Lorence for a few seconds. “You’ve none of your own to begin with.”

“Oh, off with you, for fucks sake. Keep practicing.” Humfrey huffed, shooing the horse away. “Maybe one day you’ll grow up to be four-and-fortieth in line for Highgarden, instead of six-and-fortieth. Go _grow strong_, and all that. Shoo.”

“_Prick._” Rickard sneered under his breath, and rode back the tiltyard.

“Don’t mind the Tyrell.” Ser Unwin told Jon with a smile. “I’m sure you just forgot to offer him the last sweetroll, which he deserves like the royal highness he is.”

“I just forgot to call him _my lord_.” Jon said, indifferent. _A half-truth._

“He’s not a lord, though.” Ser Humfrey pointed out, confused. 

“I know.” Jon responded. “Not sure he does, though.”

That got a laugh out of the men. Ser Unwin gave him a pat on the back, but gave him a curious look after.

“You’ve come to train with no armour?” Ser Unwin asked, incredulous, before turning on Lorence. “You let your squire come to train with no armour? Do you remember my punishment for that?”

“No need to grab your hairbrush, nuncle. I’m sure the cisterns can wait.” Lorence said with a chuckle. “I’m taking him on a tour of the castle. No training today.” _No, not today. But I’m sneaking down tonight, for sure._

“Don’t forget your armour, lad.” Ser Unwin told him in a grave voice. “Cisterns never run so well as they do the day after a good scrubbin’.”

“Stop threatening my squire, you old whoreson.” Lorence said, giving his uncle a friendly shove. “Come on, Jon. I don’t even think you have any armour anyway, do you?” 

“A good excuse to go see Valko, then.” Lorence said, at Jon’s head shake.

Lorence lead Jon through the castle, but Jon stopped him at the gate to the godswood.

“Is there a heart tree?” Jon asked.

“Of course there’s a heart tree.” Lorence answered, before giving him an apologetic glance. “We were an Andal house, so we’ve never had a weirwood, but we do have a bloody massive oak about three hundred feet in.”

“That’s alright.” Jon assured him, resuming their trek. _The old gods hold no power in the South, anyhow. It would’ve been nice to see a piece of home, is all._

The hammers were heard before the smithy was seen. They were approaching a corner of the castle, and came upon a massive sprawl of tools an equipment. It looked like an unorganized mess of tanning racks, workbenches, tool racks, and grindstones, all centred by a large forge. 

At the forge was a large, white haired, olive skinned man in naught but britches and a leather apron, hammering away at what looked to be a waraxe-in-progress. 

“Valko!” Lorence yelled, before having to do so a few more times to get the massive blacksmith’s attention. He looked up, immediately abandoning his work to a tub of water when he realized who was approaching.

“The mighty heir!” Valko boomed, his voice holding a faint, foreign accent. “To what to I owe my services today?”

“A few things, actually.” Lorence told him, before patting a hand on Jon’s back. “My new squire here needs a set of leather armour, for training. He’ll be graduating to steel soon, I’m sure, but we’ll start with leather to get him used to the extra weight.” Valko nodded, opening his mouth to add something else before being interrupted. “—_training_ armour, Valko. No decorations, or adornments.” Valko conceded, though somewhat hesitantly, it seemed.

“What else?”

“My saddle is beginning to feel like stone.” Lorence drawled. “I have to commission another one, I’m afraid.”

“This is a personal saddle to the heir of a noble house.” Valko said in his deep voice, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Would it not be practical to give it your own touch of originality?”

Lorence merely sighed. “Fine.” Lorence acquiesced. “Embroider it with the interlocking rings, like my chestplate. Let it not be said that I do not _take pride in my house._” He finished with a sarcastic drawl, before catching Valko’s eye. “No colour. Black thread.”

“Fine, fine, fine.” Valko said, before turning to Jon. “Come, boy. I shall measure you.”

Jon obeyed instantly, walking up to the massive smithy, who had taken out a thin roll of parchment, with equally spaced lines on it. _Inch marks, likely._

“Where are you from, boy?” Valko asked as he measured Jon’s shoulders.

“Winterfell. The North.”

“Cold place.”

“Aye.” Jon agreed. “But we don’t mind.”

“You know nothing else,” Valko corrected, directing him to raise his arms so that he might measure Jon’s chest. “Now you are South, in the warmth. Won’t ever be able to go back.”

“Will to!” Jon insisted indignantly.

“If you say so, little lord.” Valko said with a chuckle, before moving down to measure his thighs.

“I’m not a lord.” Jon corrected, mostly out of habit. “Just a bastard.”

“I forget how strange Westerosi laws are, sometimes.” Valko said with a chuckle. “But then I remember that Westerosi would think Qohor even stranger, and so I shut my mouth.”

“Qohor?” Jon asked, curious. “Is that where your from.”

“Correct.” Valko confirmed, moving down to Jon’s calves. “I have not been back there in forty years, though I do not miss it.”

“Why not?”

“We Qohorik are a bloody people. Fond of sacrifices. Blood magic.” Valko said, face dead serious. _Which can’t be right. Blood magic? He has to be jesting._ “Guard our secrets closely, too. That’s the main reason why I’m here.”

“My grand-uncle Eon saved Valko’s life a long time back.” Lorence chimed in. “The Qohorik take their life debts very seriously, right Valko?”

“Quite right, mighty heir.” Valko agreed. “Ser Eon, _kostagon se zōbrie hubre mīsagon zirȳla_, saved me from my countrymen, while I was hiding in the Stormlands. The master smiths of my homeland do not take kindly to those who wish to share their secrets, and so they sent some men after me. Ser Eon prevented me from greeting the _zōbrie hubre_, and so I pledged my service and my life to him and his family, until the day came where the _zōbrie hubre _would claim my soul once more.”

“The… uhh… zoh-bree… oo-bray?” Jon sounded out, sending Lorence a questioning look.

“The Black Goat.” Lorence informed him. “The religion practiced in Qohor.” Jon mouthed an understanding _oh_, just as Valko finished with the measurements. 

“These will be ready on the morrow, boy.” Valko announced. “Your saddle may take a little longer, mighty heir.”

“And Oldtown wasn’t built in a day.” Lorence said with a fond smile. “Take your time, Valko. How much?”

“Altogether? Fifty five stags.”

Lorence fished around in his purse, and handed over the appropriate amount, before turning to Jon. 

“Come along, squire. The tour isn’t over, yet.”

. . .

Jon had entered the Great Hall for supper not two minutes past when the guard burst through the door.

“My lord!” The guard called. “A rider!”

“My thanks.” Lord Moryn responded, rising immediately, and leaving out the door the guard left open.

They all gathered in the courtyard, ready to meet the visitor. _Not twenty four hours past, I was on the opposite side of this greeting._

One single man ahorse entered through the gate, swiftly dismounting. 

“I bring a letter for Ser Humfrey Hightower!” The man called out, a foreign accent coating his words. 

“Here!” Humfrey called, joining the grumbling of the rest of the household. _All this presentation for a letter? Who sends letters via courier when you could just send a raven?_

Someone important, apparently.

Because as soon as Humfrey saw the seal, he snatched the letter from the courier’s hand, tearing it open.

“I was promised three gold dragons for my services by the sender.” The man proclaimed. Jon swore he could _hear_ Lord Moryn’s eye roll, as the man fished around in his purse. 

“Here.” Lord Moryn said, slapping the coins into the courier’s outstretched hand. The courier took each coin, and bit them. At Lord Moryn’s indignant expression, the courier put his hands up in a placating manner.

“A man from Lys sees many coins, my lord.” He said. “One can never be too careful.”

“Of course.” Lord Moryn said, irritation coming through. “Will you have need of our hospitality tonight?”

“No thank you, my lord.” The courier said. “I ride through the night.”

“Off with you, then.” Lord Moryn said, growing exasperated. The Lyseni courier gave a deep bow, before mounting his horse and cantering through the open gate. The castle seemingly heaved an annoyed sigh, and the household all went back to their respective duties.

“Who is it, then?” Lorence asked Humfrey, as they walked back to the Great Hall.

“My sister.” Humfrey said, voice frantic. “This is the first I’ve heard from her since…” he trailed off, but both Jon and Lorence heard what remained unsaid: _Since Jorah Mormont fled punishment._

“And?” Lorence asked.

“Hold on, hold on.”

“What’s she got to say?”

“Let me read the damn— _what?!_”

“What?”

“_She fucking didn’t!_”

“She didn’t _what_, Humf?”

“How bloody _stupid—_”

“Humf.”

“—bring shame upon our house—”

“Humf.”

“—She’s a glorified _whore. _Hightowers don’t produce fucking _whores—_ ”

“Humf!”

“—Father will be fucking _livid—_”

“_HUMF!_”

Ser Humfrey blinked, stopping his ranting and raving. 

“What did she say?” Lorence asked. Ser Humfrey clenched his jaw, and shoved the letter at Lorence, who began to read aloud.

“_Dear Humf,_

_I’ve finally left him. You were right. I’m so sorry. I should’ve listened to you. But it’s done, now.  
_ _Jorah is on some sellsword mission, bringing back stones and gravel for his pay, the stupid oaf. I’ve moved into the manse of a merchant prince, named Tregar Ormollen.  
_ _Tregar gets me, Humf. I don’t know how to explain it. I feel so alive with him. He showers me in gifts, and my lessons from home make me so powerful in his court. I’ve never felt so alive.  
_ _I know you want me to come home, but what I hope you understand is that I am home. I will be Tregar’s chief concubine, and have all I could ever want. Even his wife is afraid of me, Humf. I would never be this powerful in Westeros._  
_I know you probably aren’t pleased, but please know that I am happy, now. I’m almost glad I married Jorah, because without him and his peasant’s pile of rocks that he calls an island, I would never have met Tregar.  
_ _I won’t be able to visit, due to Jorah’s stupidity, so if you ever feel like gallivanting across Essos, know that you are always welcome to visit._

_All my love,_

_Lynesse_”

“That stupid bear of a husband treated her so poorly, that she’d rather be a _MERCHANT’S WHORE_ than continue to be married to him!” Humfrey screamed. “I will kill him, if I ever see him again. He’s dead! _Fucking dead!_”

“Let’s get you inside, oh gallant protector.” Lorence drawled, clearly still in shock from the situation, and grabbed Humfrey by his arm. “You can threaten your candles, instead of the castle stones. People live here, you know. Not very kind.”

“_Shut. It._”

“You’ll be able to tell your candles _all _about it in a few minutes.” Lorence continued, unfazed.

Jon watched the two of them walk away, bickering all the while with a fond smile on his face.

_This is beginning to feel like home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valyrian translation for Valko's part:  
"_kostagon se zōbrie hubre mīsagon zirȳla_": "May the black goat protect him."  
"_zōbrie hubre_": Black Goat
> 
> I am not dead. *cue black panther gif.* I'm sorry for the wait. 
> 
> I thought it would be a good idea to get into some games that I'd never gotten around to playing during quarantine. The two I decided to start with were Skyrim and The Witcher 3.  
So that's where all my time went, jfc. (also, ASOIAF x Skyrim fics are my new drug. if anyone knows some good ones, shoot me some links.)
> 
> Next is Jon IV, Jon V, and then a brand new POV.


End file.
